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THE 
SANCTUARY 


53 

I 


THE 
SANCTUARY 


BY 
MAUD   HOWARD   PETERSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE   POTTER  AND  THE   CLAY  " 


BOSTON 
LOTHROP,    LEE    &    SHEPARD    CO. 


COPYRIGHT,   1912,  BY 
LOTHROP,  LEE  &  SHEPARD  Co. 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall, 
London 

All  Rights  Reserved 
THE  SANCTUARY 


fl 


To 

"ALLADIN" 
Cor  unum  —  via  una 


2137S37   » 


"  And  the  house,  when  it  was  in 
building,  was  built  of  stone  made 
ready  before  it  was  brought  thither: 
so  that  there  was  neither  hammer 
nor  axe  nor  any  tool  of  iron  heard  in 
the  house,  while  it  was  in  building." 
I.  Kings  VI,  7. 


CONTENTS 


•MB 

BOOK   ONE 

Outside  the  Gates 15 


BOOK    TWO 

The  Inner  Court 179 

BOOK    THREE 

The  Temple's  Steps 239 

BOOK   FOUR 

The  Sanctuary 285 


BOOK  ONE 
OUTSIDE  THE  GATES 


The  SANCTUARY 


I. 

BLAIR  MARTIN  stood  in  the  big  doorway 
looking  at  the  gay  scene  before  her.  She 
was  tired  and  glad  to  get  away  from  the 
fashionable  crowd  for  a  little  while,  and  grateful 
that  the  doorway  shaded  her  from  curious  eyes. 
Since  a  small  child,  and  all  through  the  years  that 
her  father  had  been  amassing  his  vast  fortune,  she 
had  resented  and  shrunk  from  the  often  overheard 
remarks  and  the  curious  gaze  people  had  bestowed 
upon  her.  Her  sensitiveness  to  public  comment  was 
oddly  at  variance  with  the  natural  independence  and 
frankness  of  speech  she  had  inherited  from  her 
father,  Andrew  Martin.  It  was  perhaps  a  legacy 
from  the  dead  mother  whose  memory  she  adored, 
as  a  woman  of  eight  and  twenty  adores  a  memory 
cherished  by  a  girl  somewhat  over  seventeen. 

The  incessant  noise  of  the  touring  cars  and  road- 
sters annoyed  her  as  they  swept  up  the  long  drive- 
way and  deposited  their  gaily  dressed  occupants  by 
the  main  tent  where  Mrs.  Weston-Smith  received 
her  guests.  An  unceasing  hum  of  voices,  from  the 
low  masculine  bass  to  the  clearer  feminine  treble  — 
a  gamut  of  human  sound  —  came  to  her  from  the 
throng  scattered  over  the  wide  lawns  and  from  the 
bazaar  tables  that  stood  nearer  to  the  trees.  From 
the  immense  temporary  pavilion  to  the  right  came 
the  clatter  of  dishes  and  again  the  same  incessant 
noise.  She  sighed  wearily. 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  I  suppose  I  must  go  back,"  she  said,  unconscious 
that  she  had  spoken  aloud. 

"  Is  it  so  distasteful  as  that?  " 

She  started  at  the  voice,  strange  and  yet,  in  an 
indefinable  way,  familiar. 

It  seemed  to  come  from  the  shadow  of  the  hall 
behind,  but  when  she  turned  quickly  and  peered  in- 
side she  could  see  no  one.  She  laughed  nervously. 

"  Now  I  am  certainly  going  back,"  she  said,  but 
this  time  not  aloud. 

She  passed  down  the  steps  of  the  wide  porch 
slowly,  and  slowly  crossed  the  lawn  to  the  bazaar 
table  of  which  she  was  in  charge.  Now  and  then 
some  one  stopped  to  speak  with  her  and  again  some 
passed  her  with  only  a  bow  of  recognition.  She 
was  grateful  when  sheer  politeness  did  not  make  it 
necessary  to  stop.  The  late  spring  day  was  intol- 
erably warm  in  spite  of  the  sheltering  trees,  and  the 
inertia  that  she  had  felt  before  crept  over  her  again 
as  she  threw  herself  m  a  chair  near  her  table  and 
watched  the  throng  in  the  distance.  Most  of  the 
buying  was  over  —  indeed,  her  own  table  of  fancy 
wares  was  nearly  empty  —  and  she  was  glad  and 
grateful  for  the  fact.  In  an  indifferent  sort  of  way 
she  watched  the  sun  filtering  through  the  trees  and 
touching  the  gay  dresses  and  parasols  of  the  women 
as  they  lazily  walked  to  and  fro  or  ate  their  ices, 
bought  at  exorbitant  charity  prices,  in  the  shade  of 
the  heavy  shrubbery.  Over  to  the  left  behind  a 
screen  of  trees  were  the  tennis  courts,  lying  warm 
and  deserted  in  the  sunshine.  As  she  watched,  the 

16 


slow  movements  of  the  crowd  took  on  new  impetus, 
and  she  could  see  it  as  with  a  settled  purpose, 
making  its  way  in  the  direction  of  the  courts.  From 
behind  the  pavilion  some  men  and  girls  emerged  in 
immaculate  flannels  with  tennis  racquets  in  their 
hands,  and  she  knew  that  the  much  talked  of  feature 
in  the  much  talked  of  charity  fete  at  Mrs.  Weston- 
Smith's,  the  finals  in  the  tournament,  had  begun. 
She  sat  still  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  her  elbow 
on  the  edge  of  the  bazaar  table,  her  chin  in  her  hand. 

"  My  dear  child,  aren't  you  going  over  to  the 
courts  ? "  said  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Weston-Smith  be- 
hind her. 

She  arose  slowly,  with  the  simple  deference  with 
which  she  addressed  people  older  than  herself. 

"  I  think  not,"  she  said,  "  I  am  very  tired  and  — 
I  shall  not  be  missed." 

"  Nonsense !  fiddlesticks  and  rubbish !  You  know 
quite  well  every  one  looks  for  you  at  affairs  of  this 
kind,  and  it  is  proverbial  how  people  stare  at  you. 
Really  I  don't  know  why !  " 

Blair  Martin  smiled  in  spite  of  herself  at  the 
twinkle  in  the  older  woman's  eyes. 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,"  she  said  with  a 
short  laugh.  "  The  women  all  want  to  see  if  I  have 
on  a  new  gown  and  if  I  am  wearing  my  famous 
string  of  pearls.  If  I  haven't  the  gown  or  the  pearls 
they  whisper  I  am  mean  or  attempting  the  classical 
or  simple  style  of  dress  —  if  I  have,  they  guess  at 
the  price  and  comment  on  my  extravagance.  As  for 
the  men  —  "  Miss  Martin  broke  off  impatiently. 

17 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  My,  but  you're  bitter  to-day,  my  dear  ;  what 
about  the  men?"  Mrs.  Weston-Smith  eyed  her 
curiously  from  beneath  a  hat  wonderfully  wrought, 
heavily  priced. 

Miss  Martin  turned  away  with  an  impatient  ges- 
ture. 

"  Oh,  the  men  don't  count,"  she  said. 

"  I  fancy  I  know  of  one  who  will,"  said  Mrs. 
Weston-Smith.  "  He  has  asked  to  be  presented. 
May  I  go  and  find  him?  He  refused  to  enter  the 
tennis  contest  although  I  understand  he  plays  a  fine 
game.  The  last  time  I  came  across  him  he  was  in 
the  shadow  of  the  hall  and  he  seemed  like  a  fish  out 
of  water.  I  fancy  he's  a  little  different  from  the 
usual  run  we  are  accustomed  to." 

"In  the  hall!    Who  is  he?" 

"  Men  call  him  Hector  Stone,  but  he  might  be 
any  of  half  a  dozen  of  those  big  odd  creatures  in 
history  and  mythology  I  used  to  read  about  in  my 
school  books  as  a  child." 

"  Indeed  !  Hector  Stone  —  I  rather  like  the 
name.  It  doesn't  tell  one  anything  as  to  nationality 
or  caste." 

"  He's  as  cosmopolitan  as  his  name.  He  says  his 
home  is  the  world  and  his  books  men.  There's  been 
some  talk  about  him  lately  in  connection  with  labor 
questions  and  clean  government  and  all  the  rest  of 
those  wonderful  and  queer  questions  I  know  nothing 
about.  He  has  the  manners  —  when  he  chooses  — 
of  a  Chesterfield  and  the  clothes  of  a  rich  man's  son 
and  the  hands  of  a  laboring  man."  Mrs.  Weston- 

18 


JIB  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Smith  smoothed  out  her  long  glove  carefully,  pleas- 
antly conscious  that  she  had  aroused  Blair  Martin's 
interest  in  a  man  at  last.  But  the  latter's  words 
and  the  veil  of  indifference  that  fell  across  her  face 
came  almost  as  a  blow. 

"  I  don't  care  for  freaks.  I  am  very  tired,  and 
when  I  see  there  is  no  chance  of  selling  the  rest  of 
these  things,  I  shall  gather  them  up  and  take  them  to 
the  library  and  with  your  permission  go  home." 

"  You're  impossible !  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  go 
and  you've  got  to  have  some  diversion.  I'm  due 
now  at  the  courts.  Why,  the  man  asked  to  meet 
you.  What  can  I  tell  him  ?  " 

"  That  I'm  not  receiving  to-day,"  said  Blair  Mar- 
tin with  a  slow  smile. 

"  I  won't  tell  him  anything  of  the  kind.  I  shall 
bring  him  up  and  you  will  charm  him  into  buying  to 
help  the  poor  babies  along.  You  can  tell  him  one 
dollar's  worth  will  give  two  children  a  part  of  a  shoe 
apiece ;  five  dollars  will  give  twenty  children  a  joy- 
ous but  uncomfortable  hay  ride,  and  ten  dollars, 
one  small  boy  three  weeks  in  the  country  where  he 
will  mope  and  pine  for  '  de  gang.' ' 

"  I  can't  remember  all  those  statistics,"  said  Miss 
Martin,  "  but  here  is  a  fat  pink  pincushion  marked 
at  fifteen  dollars,  but  worth  about  three,  that  you 
might  persuade  him  to  buy,  only  you  must  excuse 
me." 

"  My  dear,  I  won't  excuse  you ;  and  never  let 
Maria  Linwood  hear  you  revile  the  work  of  her 
hands  like  that.  Maria  slaved  a  week  over  that 

19 


THE   SANCTUARY 


cushion  and  put  in  one  dollar  and  seventy-six  cents 
worth  of  choice  powder  to  make  it  smell  sweet." 

"  Which  will  undoubtedly  enhance  it  in  the  eyes 
of  Mr.  Stone,"  said  Blair  Martin,  drawing  down 
the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"  There !  you're  getting  human  again.  Just  sit 
down  and  rest  and  I'll  hunt  him  up.  I  once  found 
a  gold  dollar  in  a  haystack  when  I  was  a  child, 
though  how  the  dollar  came  there  I  never  could 
explain." 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  Mrs.  Weston- 
Smith  and  her  immense  hat  sailed  away. 

Blair  Martin  resumed  her  seat  with  a  long  sigh. 

"  It's  her  affair  and  I  suppose  it's  rude  to  be  so 
unsociable,  but  if  this  is  charity  —  then  —  " 

Exactly  what  she  wanted  or  intended  to  say  is 
not  known,  for  just  here  Blair  Martin  fell  to  musing 
and  she  was  only  aroused  by  hearing  Mrs.  Weston- 
Smith's  voice  at  her  elbow. 

"  Here  she  is  —  a  regular  Casabianca  —  and  true 
to  her  trust.  Now  I  hope  you're  going  to  buy  some- 
thing. It's  for  the  poor  babies,  you  know,  and  you 
mustn't  mind  being  robbed.  My  dear,  let  me  pre- 
sent Mr.  Hector  Stone  —  Mr.  Stone  —  Miss  Mar- 
tin." 

Blair  Martin  raised  her  head  slowly  and  the  move- 
ment gave  no  hint  of  the  odd  nervousness  that  crept 
over  her  when  she  heard  his  voice.  It  seemed  to 
come  to  her  strong  with  the  strength  of  ages. 

"  I  am  glad  to  meet  you  —  indeed  I  have  been 
wanting  to,  and  asked  Mrs.  Weston-Smith  to  find 

20 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

a  way.  I  know  you  must  be  tired  though,  and  if 
you  don't  want  company  you  must  tell  me." 

Mrs.  Weston-Smith,  with  a  barely  concealed  smile 
of  satisfaction  slipped  away  unnoticed.  Blair  Mar- 
tin uttered  some  worn,  polite  platitude,  and  was 
acutely  conscious  that  she  had  heard  the  voice 
before. 

"  You  will  forgive  me  for  talking  to  you  in  the 
hall,  won't  you?  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  much  on 
conventionalities.  I  knew  you  were  tired  before 
you  spoke  there,  and  I  believe  there  is  no  fatigue 
so  great  as  that  which  society  exacts  as  toll." 

Miss  Martin  watched  him  as  he  spoke  and  she 
could  not  have  told  the  color  of  his  eyes  or  described 
any  one  feature  of  his  face.  She  was  conscious  of  a 
nameless  charm  and  frankness  she  had  never  met 
before  —  of  an  understanding  that  was  separate 
and  distinct  from  time  and  place  and  sex. 

"  You  don't  care  for  society  then?  "  she  asked. 

"  That's  a  very  much  abused  term,  Miss  Martin," 
he  said  with  a  slow  smile,  "  and  there  is  much  to 
be  said  for  and  against  it  —  as  there  is  of  every- 
thing else.  With  your  permission  I  will  sit  down. 
I  understand  I  am  expected  to  buy  something. 
What  kind  of  things  must  I  get?  " 

A  sudden  hot  flush  of  shame  swept  over  her  as 
she  viewed  the  table  before  her  with  its  dainty  use- 
less trifles  of  lace  and  silk.  What  part  could  lace 
and  silk,  be  they  on  inanimate  things  or  —  women, 
play  in  his  life,  she  wondered,  and  for  the  first  time 
she  was  ashamed  of  an  exquisite  gown. 

21 


4ft  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

"I  —  I  am  afraid  this  is  all  I  have,"  she  said 
a  little  shyly.  "  They  are  all  quite  useless,  you  see 
—  for  practical  use — for  a  man." 

"  I  don't  suppose  that  ought  to  matter  in  an  affair 
like  this.  It  isn't  what  we  buy,  but  how  much  we 
spend  for  the  poor  babies  —  isn't  it?"  he  asked. 

"  I  suppose  so,  only —  "  Blair  Martin  broke  off, 
oddly  confused. 

"  Only  what  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  seem  quite  right,  —  does  it  ? 
Something  is  wrong  in  the  scheme  of  the  thing,  I 
think.  We  all  sit  around  for  months  and  wear  our 
fingers  sore  and  our  tempers  to  a  sharp  edge,  and 
we  spend  a  lot  in  buying  yards  of  lace  and  silk  to 
make  into  things  people  never  use  and  don't  want, 
and  it's  all  written  up  in  the  papers,  and  expensive 
engraved  invitations  are  issued,  and  people  all  get 
together  and  buy  the  things  because  they  must,  and 
eat  of  the  refreshments,  and  gossip,  because  they 
want  to."  She  broke  off  and  began  to  twist  a  fine 
sapphire  ring  around  and  around  her  finger.  She 
did  not  want  to  meet  his  eyes.  She  knew  now  that 
they  were  gray  and  the  deepest  that  she  had  ever 
seen. 

"That's  heresy  — isn't  it?" 

She  tried  to  speak  lightly. 

"  I  suppose  it  is." 

A  silence  fell  between  them.  They  could,  in  a 
dim  way  not  to  be  explained,  feel  the  weight  of  it 
on  them.  The  shade  around  the  big  tree  under 
which  they  sat  grew  denser  and  the  shadows  of  the 

22 


*  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

other  trees  near  by  crept  to  meet  it  across  the  sun- 
touched  lawn. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Stone,  rising  slowly  and  be- 
ginning to  examine  the  few  articles  remaining  on 
the  table.  "  What  is  this  and  how  much  ?  " 

"  That,"  said  Blair  Martin  with  a  laugh,  "  is  a 
very  fine  article  —  the  only  one  of  its  kind  any- 
where, I  know.  It  is  a  pincushion  and  was  made  by 
a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Weston-Smith's.  It's  marked  for 
fifteen  dollars,  but  since  the  day  is  late  and  cus- 
tomers few  I  will  let  it  go  for  ten." 

He  met  her  eyes  and  his  own  began  to  twinkle. 

"  But  think  of  the  poor  babies  —  I  would  not  rob 
the  poor  babies." 

"  I  think  I  can  say  with  truth  it  would  not  rob  the 
poor  babies,"  she  replied. 

"  Well  —  of  course  if  that's  the  case,  I'll  take  it, 
although  what  I'm  to  do  with  it  I  don't  know." 

"  You  might  give  it  to  a  sister,  perhaps,  or  a 
cousin  or  a  friend,"  she  suggested. 

"  I  have  no  sister  or  cousin,"  he  said  simply. 
"  Might  —  might  I  offer  the  beautiful  thing  to  you 
as  a  memento  of  our  first  meeting?  " 

"  I  cannot  take  it,"  she  replied  almost  brusquely. 
It  was  not  what  she  had  intended  to  say,  but  she 
was  conscious  of  speaking  only  the  truth  to  him,  un- 
varnished by  conventionalities. 

For  a  moment  he  smiled;  then  he  said  gravely, 
"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  offered  it  more  in  sport 
—  as  one  would  offer  a  toy  —  than  as  a  gift  of  any 
worth.  And  what  does  the  Poor  Babies'  Bazaar 

23 


THE   SANCTUARY 


want  for  this  ?  It  is  a  clothes-bag  —  isn't  it  ?  The 
colors  are  pretty." 

She  smiled  as  she  did  up  the  pincushion  in  white 
tissue  paper. 

"  No,  indeed  —  how  blind  you  men  are.  That  is 
a  shirt-waist  holder.  Its  price  is  —  -  let  me  see  — 
seven  —  five  —  it  can't  be.  Yes,  it  is.  It's  actually 
seven-fifty."  She  laughed.  "  Couldn't  you  use  it 
for  your  dress  shirts  ?  "  she  asked  with  pretended 
anxiety. 

"  Not  possibly.  I  admire  your  ability  as  a  sales- 
woman, Miss  Martin." 

"  Here's  a  work-bag  all  fitted  up  with  cunning 
little  scissors  and  an  emery  —  everything  complete. 
It's  really  one  of  the  prettiest  things  that  came  in 
to-day.  I  wonder  it  was  not  sold  before.  I  had 
thought  of  buying  it  myself." 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  —  since  it  is  of  no  use 
to  me  as  a  present  or  otherwise,"  said  Stone,  a 
shadow  creeping  over  his  bright  face.  "  You  sew  ?  " 

"I  love  it,"  she  said  like  a  little  child.  "My 
mother  taught  me  years  before  she  died." 

"  Ah,"  he  said.  " 

She  handed  him  the  pincushion,  and  as  he  thanked 
her  he  saw  in  her  eyes  the  shadow  of  a  grief  that 
had  never  quite  lifted  from  her  life. 

"  It  is  a  great  thing  for  a  man  or  woman  to  re- 
member —  a  mother  that  was  a  mother  in  some- 
thing more  than  name.  We  do  not  often  meet  with 
it  in  the  upper  circles,  but  I  had  such  a  mother  too, 
once." 

24 


THE    SANCTUARY 


Her  eyes  dropped  their  gaze  on  the  table,  and  her 
fingers  began  to  nervously  gather  the  remaining 
trifles  together. 

"  In  her  girlhood  and  early  married  years  my 
mother  had  to  sew,"  she  said  a  little  proudly,  "  and 

—  and  when  the  money  came  it  made  no  difference 
to  her,  she  sewed  still  —  she  made  many  of  my 
things  —  she  taught  me.    Her  needle  was  her  pleas- 
ure and  —  her  solace." 

She  stopped  and  bit  her  lip.  Why  had  she  spoken 
to  a  stranger  so,  she  wondered.  Yet  was  he  quite  a 
stranger  after  all? 

She  put  the  unsold  things  one  by  one  into  a 
basket  until  the  table  was  all  cleared,  and  he  did 
not  speak  as  he  watched  her  at  her  task. 

"May  I  carry  it  for  you?"  he  asked  when  she 
had  finished. 

"  If  you  will.  I  shall  leave  it  in  the  library. 
Then  I  must  get  my  wraps  and  go  home.  It  is  get- 
ting late  and  I  have  always  tried  to  make  it  a  point 
to  be  on  hand  for  my  father's  dinner.  It  is  so  deso- 
late alone." 

"  Yes,"  said  Stone,  picking  up  the  basket. 

She  led  the  way  to  the  house  through  the  glow 
of  approaching  sunset.  To  the  right,  from  the  ten- 
nis courts,  came  loud  applause  and  voices  calling 
out  the  final  scores.  To  the  left  stood  the  pavilion 

—  deserted  now,  as  was  the  house  that  loomed  be- 
fore them. 

"  What  a  pity,"  said  Stone  irrelevantly. 
"  What  ?  "  she  asked  curiously. 

25 


*R  THE   SANCTUARY  %& 

"  That  such  a  naturally  beautiful  spot  should  be 
so  spoiled." 

"  You  mean  this  mix-up  —  don't  you  —  the 
Italian  pergola  and  the  Chinese  pagoda  summer- 
house,  and  the  mixture  of  fret-work  and  Corinthian 
pillars  on  the  house  itself  ?  " 

"Exactly." 

"  I  have  often  noticed  it,  but  you  are  the  only 
one  that  has  ever  spoken  of  it." 

"  It  seems  rather  rude,  doesn't  it,  with  the  owner 
not  two  hundred  yards  away,  but  I  am  thinking  of 
it  quite  impartially  and  aside  from  Mrs.  Weston- 
Smith.  It  does  seem  that  we  should  make  money 
stand  for  beauty  at  least,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said  briefly,  as  she  led  the  way  into 
the  library. 

He  put  the  basket  down. 

"  May  I  wait  until  you  get  your  wraps  and  hunt 
up  your  team  or  car  ?  " 

"  Thank  you.  It  is  a  little  blue  roadster.  You 
will  find  it  apart  from  the  others.  I  left  it  so  that 
I  could  get  it  out  easily.  It  has  narrow  gold  out- 
lining and  the  license  number  is  two  hundred  and 
eighteen." 

He  lingered  at  the  library  door  watching  her 
mount  the  stairs. 

Ten  minutes  later,  when  she  came  down  to  the 
library  it  was  empty,  and  on  going  out  to  the  porch 
she  saw  him  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  waiting  for  her 
with  the  car. 

"  I  found  it  without  any  trouble,"  he  said  as  he 

26 


THE   SANCTUARY 


helped  her  in.  "Are  —  are  you  sure  you  can  manage 
alone  ?  There  is  a  bad  stretch  of  road  a  mile  away 
from  here." 

"  I  can  take  the  other  by  Brooke's  Crossing," 
she  said  with  a  slow  smile. 

"  And  go  three  miles  out  of  your  way  when  your 
father  will  be  waiting  dinner  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  the  road  that  leads  to  The 
Anchorage  ? "  she  asked.  "  Do  you  know  my 
father?" 

He  smiled  in  an  odd  way. 

"  I  have  heard  of  him,"  he  said.  "  Are  you  all 
right?" 

"  Quite  all  right,"  she  laughed  in  answer,  her 
foot  on  the  clutch  pedal.  "  Good-bye." 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  held  it  in  his  hand. 

"  Good  night,"  he  said. 

She  started  to  turn  the  steering-wheel. 

He  handed  her  some  money. 

"  Why,  what  is  this  for?  "  she  asked.  "  You  paid 
for  the  wonderful  pincushion." 

"  But  not  for  the  little  work-bag.  I  have  decided 
to  take  that  and  —  help  the  poor  babies  a  little 
more." 

Through  the  glow  of  fading  sunset  she  drove  the 
car  down  the  long  winding  carriage  road  looking 
straight  ahead  of  her.  She  was  conscious  that  he 
was  still  standing  on  the  lower  step  watching  her  — 
that  he  stood  there  until  the  tall  trees  and  the  curve 
had  hidden  her  from  his  sight.  Suddenly  he 
stooped  and  picked  up  something  from  the  stone 

27 


THE   SANCTUARY 


step.  It  was  one  of  her  long  white  gloves  that  she 
had  worn  earlier  in  the  day.  It  had  dropped  when 
she  was  replacing  it  with  the  heavier  ones  she  used 
when  driving.  He  looked  around  him  and  saw  that 
he  was  quite  alone.  For  a  moment  he  held  the 
glove  and  slowly  smoothed  out  the  creases.  A  faint 
odor  of  violets  exuded  from  it  —  as  permeating  as 
it  was  evasive,  an  ounce  of  which  was  worth  a 
weeks'  pay  to  a  working  girl.  Then  he  folded  it 
and  placed  it  in  an  inner  pocket  of  his  coat  before 
he  turned  away. 

Along  the  country  road,  Blair  Martin  meanwhile 
drove  her  car,  past  luxurious  homes  of  the  rich 
hidden  behind  stone  walls  and  great  trees,  over  the 
"  bad  stretch,"  which  she  took  carefully,  remember- 
ing his  warning,  and  on  into  the  falling  dusk  of 
twilight  until  the  lights  from  the  lodge  of  the 
Anchorage  streamed  out  as  she  neared  the  gates. 

"  He  only  said  '  Good  night/  but  he  never  asked 
to  call,"  she  thought  as  she  descended  later  and 
turned  the  car  over  to  a  waiting  groom. 

In  silence  she  passed  through  the  wide  hall  and 
climbed  the  stairway  to  her  rooms. 


II. 

A  MONTH  later  Hector  Stone  turned  his  car 
in  at  the  great  gates  of  the  Anchorage.  It 
was  a  powerful  six-cylinder  machine,  in- 
conspicuous in  color  and  in  outline;  perfect  in  its 
mechanism  and  fitness  for  realizing  the  purpose  of 
its  makers.  It  vaguely  suggested  its  owner.  At 
first  he  looked  around  him  curiously  as  he  drove  up 
the  wide  carriage  road.  Stretches  of  woodland  lay 
on  either  side  and  in  their  dense  growth  the  after- 
noon shadows  rested  deep  and  still.  The  way  was 
long  and  the  house  hidden  from  his  view.  After  a 
while  the  sense  of  curiosity  vanished  and  he  glanced 
around  him  as  though  seeking  some  one  he  did  not 
find.  A  mile  from  the  big  gates  the  house  itself 
stood.  He  came  upon  it  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
and  for  a  moment  he  slowed  down  in  surprised 
wonder  and  delight. 

"  Beautiful,"  he  said  aloud.  "  Yet  who  would 
have  expected  it  of  Andrew  Martin  ?  " 

The  house  —  a  fine  modification  of  the  mission 
style,  with  all  the  mission  charm  and  none  of  its  in- 
convenience —  stood  in  its  stuccoed  beauty  and  tiled 
roof  on  an  eminence  of  ground.  Wide,  perfect 
lawns,  unadorned  except  by  splendid  trees,  stretched 
<lown  to  meet  him  on  three  sides.  In  the  rear  he 

29 


*B  THE    SANCTUARY  m 

could  see  the  garden  that  sloped  to  an  orchard  in  a 
hollow.  Beyond  the  orchard  ran  a  cooling  stream 
where  cows  were  grazing,  and  then  the  land  went 
up  again,  and  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  dotted  cot- 
tages, —  the  homes  of  the  farm-hands,  —  and  then 
a  faint  outline  of  dim  hills  against  a  summer  sky. 

Without  the  odd  haste  he  had  felt  earlier  in  the 
day  and  with  the  surprised  wonder  still  upon  him, 
he  drove  his  car  into  the  Spanish  courtyard  en- 
trance. There  at  the  front  door  he  stopped  and 
dismounted  and  turned  to  ring  the  bell.  The  place 
was  deserted  and  if  he  had  hoped  to  see  any  one  he 
was  disappointed.  He  looked  at  the  courtyard 
critically  and  with  an  eye  trained  to  the  best  in 
beauty  and  in  art,  as  he  waited  for  an  answer  to  his 
ring.  He  was  conscious  that  his  exacting  taste  was 
satisfied  —  that  each  detail  on  inspection  was  as 
perfect  as  he  had  thought  it  at  first  glance.  .  .  . 
An  hour  later,  seated  in  the  great  library,  he  spoke 
of  it  to  Andrew  Martin  with  the  candor  that  char- 
acterized him. 

"  Yes,  most  people  feel  that  way  about  it.  I  do 
myself,  only  none  of  us  have  ever  said  it  like  that. 
It's  Blair's  work  —  my  daughter,  you  know,  Mr. 
Stone  —  the  architect  said  he  never  saw  such  a  head 
for  building  on  a  woman." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Stone  aloud.  To  himself  he  said, 
"  I  might  have  known." 

"  You  have  a  great  way  of  saying  things,  Mr. 
Stone  —  in  fact  I  might  say  a  most  strong  and  — 
persuasive  way.  I  suppose  you  have  been  told  that 

30 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

before  ?  I  expect  it  has  helped  you  in  your  —  ah 
—  your  work.  Now  for  my  part  I'm  not  very  much 
on  talk,  I've  been  too  busy  all  my  life  for  that." 

Stone  smiled  good-naturedly. 

"  Not  but  what  a  tongue  is  a  gift  —  a  great  gift," 
went  on  the  elder  man  hastily.  "  Why,  you've  al- 
most persuaded  me  about  the  changes  in  the  mill  —  " 
He  broke  off,  conscious  that  the  smile  on  Stone's 
face  had  faded  and  that  he  was  regarding  him 
anxiously. 

"  They  are  very  necessary,  sir." 

"  How  do  you  know  so  much  about  my  mills  ?  " 

An  odd  look  crept  for  a  moment  into  Stone's 
eyes. 

"  I  am  a  member  of  a  board  of  investigation  as 
to  the  sanitary  and  safety  conditions  of  the  mills  in 
New  England." 

"  It  strikes  me  you  see  and  know  more  than  the 
usual  investigator,"  said  Andrew  Martin  shrewdly. 

"  Perhaps  I  do  my  work  a  little  more  thoroughly." 

"  Too  damned  thorough  —  I  beg  your  pardon  — 
for  the  owners  to  altogether  relish.  It's  a  good 
thing  for  us  you  are  not  one  of  the  inspectors." 

"  It  might  come  a  trifle  hard  on  the  owners,  but 
it  would  mean  a  great  deal  to  the  working  force." 
Stone  spoke  quickly. 

Martin  moved  impatiently. 

'  There's  a  good  deal  of  tommy-rot  about  the 

working   forces.      I've   been   one   of  the  working 

forces  all  my  life,   sir.     I'm  one  of  the  working 

forces  now,  and  I  always  expect  to  be.    I've  served 

31 


THE   SANCTUARY 


my  apprenticeship  at  tougher  labor  than  you  ever 
tried." 

The  odd  look  crept  back  into  Stone's  eyes. 

"  Then  you  doubtless  know  all  your  men  —  all 
their  needs." 

"  Not  at  all.  Not  —  at  —  all  !  "  said  Martin,  and 
his  manner  was  disconcerted.  "  I  leave  all  that  to 
the  managers  and  the  foremen  now,  and  a  pretty 
good  lot  I  have,  too.  The  output  of  the  mills  has 
been  greater  than  ever  before." 

"  Then  it  would  seem  that  I  could  not  have  sug- 
gested the  improvements  at  a  better  time." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  What's  the  good  of  all 
the  increased  profits  if  you've  got  to  put  thousands 
back  into  the  work  again?  The  mills  are  good 
enough  to  stand  on  their  own  feet  now,  sir.  That's 
what  I  say  and  that's  what  the  inspector  said  last 
week.  The  official  state  inspector  ought  to  know. 
He  said  nothing  about  the  safety  devices  you  seem 
to  think  so  necessary,  or  the  repairs  in  the  engine 
room.  I  guess  his  word  goes." 

Stone  rose  wearily.  The  fruitlessness  of  his  er- 
rand —  and  all  that  the  failure  meant  —  oppressed 
him.  He  picked  up  his  hat. 

Andrew  Martin  rose  too,  smiling  genially. 

"  I  like  you,"  he  said,  "  first  rate,  only  I  like  you 
better  than  I  do  your  views,  and  I  admire  your 
tongue." 

Stone  looked  at  him  with  anxious,  tired  eyes. 

"  I  would  prefer  you  to  like  .me  less  and  my  views 
more,"  he  answered. 

32 


THE   SANCTUARY 


The  Scotchman  winced  a  little. 

"  You'd  better  leave  social  conditions  alone  and 
enjoy  your  money,"  he  said.  "  That's  a  job  for  any 
man." 

"  Yes,"  said  Stone  significantly,  "  that's  a  job  for 
any  man." 

"  Great  heavens  !  —  you've  been  left  a  fortune  as 
big  as  the  one  it's  taken  me  years  to  amass  by  work 
—  work,  sir.  Make  use  of  it  in  the  right  way." 

"  I  am  making  use  of  it,  Mr.  Martin,  in  my  way. 
Your  work  is  your  mills.  Mine  is  —  men." 

"  Just  the  same  I  could  give  you  pointers  on  those 
men.  I've  never  reduced,  or  closed  down  on  them. 
They've  always  gotten  their  money  promptly.  I've 
never  had  a  strike  but  once." 

"  No  doubt,  Mr.  Martin.  Yet  that  prompt  pay 
has  not  always  been  enough  to  meet  their  needs.  In 
sickness  the  pay  has  stopped  —  in  death  the  families 
have  been  forgotten  —  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

Stone's  eyes  compelled  an  answer. 

"  Have  you  been  talking  to  my  men  —  have  they 
been  complaining  to  you  ?  As  far  as  what  you  say  is 
concerned,  I  don't  know.  I  leave  such  details  to  the 
managers.  They  are  tried  and  trusted  men,  Mr. 
Stone,  and  I  have  had  no  cause  to  complain  of  the 
way  my  business  has  been  conducted."  There  was 
a  note  of  warning  and  of  finality  in  the  Scotchman's 
voice. 

Stone  bowed. 

"  I  understand,  Mr.  Martin.     Good  day." 

"  Good-bye  —  good-bye.    As  I  said  before,  I  like 

33 


you,  but  not  your  views.  If  you  could  come  again 
—  dine  with  us,  perhaps,  and  meet  my  daughter  — 
but  leave  your  views  behind,  we  might  get  on  bet- 
ter." The  Scotchman's  good  humor  had  returned. 

"  Thank  you,  but  my  views  and  myself  are  one. 
I  do  not  wantonly  intrude  them  except  where  I  feel 
I  can  help  those  less  fortunate  than  myself." 

Andrew  Martin  shook  his  head. 

"  You're  following  a  beautiful  bubble,  young 
man,  and  by  and  by  it  will  burst." 

"  It  is  not  a  bubble,  Mr.  Martin,  it  is  rather  a  part 
of  a  vast  avalanche  that  gathers  strength  with  every 
effort.  Some  day  the  avalanche  will  crush  those 
beneath,  as  some  day  the  boiler  in  mill  fifteen  will 
burst  —  as  some  day  men  will  be  crushed  and  in- 
jured for  lack  of  safety  devices  on  the  machinery 
on  the  third  floor.  The  inspector  will  not  escape." 

The  Scotchman's  face  flushed  hotly. 

"  I'm  not  used  to  threats.  Still,  I  like  you.  Will 
you  come  again  ?  " 

Stone  smiled  a  little. 

"  Would  it  do  any  good  ?  " 

"  You'll  never  make  me  change  my  mind,  if  that's 
what  you  mean.  I  fancy  I  know  more  about  the 
mills  than  you  do  —  however  close  and  thorough 
your  inspection.  I  fancy  the  managers  who  have 
run  things  for  years  to  my  satisfaction,  know  still 
more.  If  you'd  come  now  and  talk  cars  with  me  — 
I'm  in  the  market  for  a  new  one,  and  I  see  you  are 
a  good  judge  of  cars  at  least  —  I'd  be  glad  to  see 
you  and  have  you  meet  my  daughter." 

34 


m  THE    SANCTUARY  m 

"  I  have  met  Miss  Martin." 

"  You  have  met  Blair?    She  never  told  me." 

"  She  probably  does  not  remember  me.  It  was 
at  that  wonderful  charity  bazaar  given  at  Mrs. 
Weston-Smith's." 

"  Oh,  I  remember.  A  very  fine  affair  I  believe  it 
was.  Didn't  have  time  to  go  myself.  I  rarely  do. 
To  tell  you  the  truth  I  don't  care  much  for  those 
things  —  neither  does  Blair,  but  I  make  her  go. 
Mrs.  Weston-Smith  has  been  very  kind  to  my 
daughter.  I  admire  Mrs.  Weston-Smith  very  much 
—  a  fine  woman." 

"  Your  daughter  has  been  kind  to  Mrs.  Weston- 
Smith,"  said  Stone  significantly. 

The  Scotchman  laughed,  pleased,  and  quick  to 
catch  the  inference. 

"  There  isn't  any  one  better  than  Blair,"  he  said. 
"  She's  the  image  of  her  mother  and  like  her  in 
many  ways.  I've  given  her  all  I  could,  but  it's  been 
her  mother  that  left  her  the  blood,  Mr.  Stone  — 
and  the  breeding  I've  been  too  busy  to  learn." 

The  Scotchman  turned  abruptly  and  looked  out 
of  the  window  toward  the  Spanish  courtyard  where 
Stone's  car  still  stood.  He  seemed  to  see  neither 
the  courtyard  nor  the  car. 

Stone  broke  the  silence. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  but  his  voice  was  kinder 
than  it  was  before.  "  Perhaps  some  day  I  will  come 
to  the  Anchorage  again." 

The  Scotchman  watched  him  as  he  got  into  the 
car  and  went  off  down  the  winding  driveway. 

35 


*»  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  library  and  his  easy  chair 
and  his  electric  fan  and  sat  down  to  think.  By  and 
by  he  rang  a  bell,  and  when  the  silent  butler  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway  he  ordered  a  Scotch  and 
soda. 

"  I  didn't  even  offer  him  a  drink,"  he  thought, 
as  he  sipped  it  slowly  and  with  relish.  "  He  was 
altogether  a  rather  upsetting  young  man.  Yet  he 
doesn't  look  so  young  either,  and  his  face  shows 
trouble.  Now  what  on  earth  could  trouble  a  healthy 
man  under  forty,  and  a  millionaire  at  that?  Prob- 
ably never  did  a  stroke  of  work  in  his  life  either, 
with  his  big  car  and  his  immaculate  dress.  Wonder 
what  happened  to  his  hands !  They're  rough-look- 
ing for  a  man  of  leisure.  Wonder  how  he  knows 
so  much  about  my  mills!  Guess  Jenkins  knows 
more,  though.  Perhaps  Jenkins  has  had  my  in- 
terests a  bit  too  much  at  heart  —  perhaps.  That's 
nonsense,  though.  The  mills  were  never  more  pros- 
perous or  the  men  more  contented.  Jenkins  told 
the  inspector  so  last  week.  ...  I  wonder  how  the 
wives  and  bairns  do  get  along,  though,  when  the 
men  are  sick  or  —  dead.  .  .  .  And  I  wonder  why 
that  young  man  didn't  shake  my  hand." 


m. 

IN  July  Hannah,  Miss  Martin's  faithful  maid, 
packed  innumerable  trunks  and  followed  her 
mistress  to  Bar  Harbor,  where  she  had  gone 
to  visit  an  old  school  friend.  Blair  had  been  loath 
to  go,  for  some  reason  other  than  leaving  him, 
Andrew  Martin  shrewdly  guessed,  but  just  what 
that  reason  was  he  had  been  unable  to  find  out. 
He  knew  a  good  deal  more  about  mills  than  about 
women  —  indeed  he  had  never  understood  women 
very  well,  not  even  the  dark-eyed,  soft-voiced  woman 
from  the  far  South  he  had  married  years  ago  when 
they  were  both  penniless,  —  but  a  certain  instinct 
he  had  inherited  from  his  own  country  and  its 
people,  told  him  that  his  daughter  had  grown  un- 
naturally quiet;  had  often  seemed  distracted  and 
preoccupied  when  he  had  tried  to  interest  her  in  his 
new  plans  and  projects,  and  took  little  interest  in 
what  went  on  around  her.  So  when  the  invitation 
came  one  morning  and  she  had  shown  it  with  an 
indifferent  smile  to  her  father,  the  Scotchman  had 
jumped  at  it  as  the  solution  to  the  trouble,  had  per- 
emptorily insisted  on  her  going,  and  had,  in  spite 
of  remonstrances,  written  her  a  check  of  four  fig- 
ures, over  and  above  her  allowance,  to  be  spent  on 
new  clothes. 

37 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"I'm  a  blind  old  fool  —  it's  only  change  she 
needs,"  he  told  himself  late  one  afternoon  on  return- 
ing to  the  great  house  after  seeing  her  off.  "  Eight 
weeks  with  those  of  her  own  age  will  set  her  on 
her  feet  again.  It's  hard  to  remember  she  needs 
some  one  besides  myself  to  talk  to  every  day,  but 
my,  how  still  the  house  seems  !  Suspect  I'll  have  to 
get  used  to  it  —  Blair'll  be  marrying  some  day  and 
leaving  me  in  earnest."  And  Martin  smiled  grimly 
to  himself  as  he  sat  down  in  lonely  state  to  a  long 
course  dinner  in  the  big  wainscoted  dining-room 
hung  with  fine  tapestries  and  flanked  by  two  butlers 
to  heed  his  every  want.  He  remembered  suddenly 
and  quite  irrelevantly  a  humble  one  he  had  known 
eight  and  twenty  years  before,  and  how  a  frail  sweet- 
eyed  woman  with  a  voice  like  liquid  music  had 
served  him  with  broiled  mackerel  and  corn  pone. 
He  remembered  it  quite  well.  It  was  the  night 
before  Blair  had  been  born. 

He  rose  suddenly  from  the  half  touched  entree 
with  a  strange  taste  and  a  stranger  name,  left  his 
Madeira  untouched  and  walked  out  into  the  summer 
night. 

Once  he  stopped  in  his  pacing  to  and  fro  and 
thought  of  ordering  out  the  car  and  driving  'over 
to  Mrs.  Weston-Smith's,  who  had  decided  not  to 
open  her  Lenox  house  that  season.  Then  he  shook 
his  head. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  want,"  he  said  with  an  in- 
decision foreign  to  him.  "  Wonder  what's  become 
of  that  fellow  Stone.  I'll  ring  him  up  and  ask  him 

38 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

to  come  to  a  bachelor  dinner  to-morrow  night.  I'll 
never  agree  with  him,  but  that  rather  adds  interest 
to  the  game." 

Stone  had  accepted  with  alacrity  after  first  making 
sure,  for  some  odd  reason,  that  the  Scotchman's 
daughter  was  away,  and  that  dinner  was  the  fore- 
runner of  many  others  that  he  ate  at  Andrew  Mar- 
tin's home  during  the  weeks  before  Blair  Martin 
returned.  Sometimes  Martin  had  asked  Stone  to 
spend  an  afternoon  with  him  and  take  a  run  down 
to  the  North  Shore  in  the  car,  but  Stone  always 
pleaded  an  excuse  of  something  else  to  do  with  a 
geniality  that  made  offense  impossible.  He  always 
kept  his  dinner  appointments  of  half  past  seven 
punctually  at  the  Anchorage,  which  pleased  Mar- 
tin's business  sense,  and  he  was  always  faultlessly 
dressed  and  generally  drove  himself  in  his  dark 
colored  car.  There  he  would  sip  the  Scotchman's 
wine  and  let  the  Scotchman  talk  until  he  grew 
weary  of  his  own  voice,  or  deftly  draw  him  into  an 
argument  in  which  the  Scotchman,  worsted,  would 
take  refuge  behind  a  quantity  of  worn  platitudes, 
hoping  they  would  make  up  for  Stone's  quality  of 
reasoning.  For  the  most  part  they  were  good- 
natured  bouts  of  the  tongue,  for  Stone  never  al- 
lowed himself  to  forget  that  the  Scotchman  was  his 
host,  or  that  there  was  much  to  gain  in  Martin's 
final  acceptance  of  his  views.  He  talked,  he  argued, 
he  ridiculed,  he  cajoled  with  an  outward  calm  and 
patience  that  perfectly  concealed  the  inner  anxiety 
and  weariness  of  failure  that  he  often  felt;  and 

39 


THE   SANCTUARY 


Martin  grew  to  look  for  his  comings  with  an  eager- 
ness of  which  he  himself  was  only  barely  conscious, 
and  through  the  day  to  go  over  with  himself  Stone's 
line  of  reasoning  in  order  to  find  the  weak  points 
in  his  own  defense. 

Stone  interested  him.  There  was  much  about  him 
that  puzzled  the  Scotchman,  and  an  enigma  held  a 
certain  charm  for  Martin,  be  it  a  mill  proposition  or 
a  man.  His  own  experience  with  life  taught  him 
to  know  the  lines  of  anxiety  and  care  when  he  met 
with  them  in  other  men,  and  while  he  rarely  sought 
to  analyze  the  cause,  or  thought  of  offering  help,  he 
found  his  curiosity  aroused.  He  knew  a  good  ar- 
gument when  he  heard  it  even  while  he  strenuously 
defended  the  other  side,  and  from  the  lowlands  of 
his  somewhat  irascible  temper  he  viewed  the  heights 
of  Stone's  control  with  interest  and  with  envy.  One 
by  one,  through  those  dinners  and  in  the  long  talks 
in  the  grounds  afterwards  over  their  Havanas,  he 
started  to  put  the  pieces  of  the  enigma  together  until 
he  became  engrossed  in  the  task.  His  conclusions  — 
more  or  less  correct  —  left  him  dissatisfied  with 
himself,  for  while  many  of  the  pieces  matched,  the 
keynote  of  the  picture  seemed  always  lacking.  He 
thought  much  about  the  keynote  away  from  Stone 
and  while  with  him,  and  from  the  dim  recesses  of 
his  active  brain,  he  connected  it  in  some  way  with 
the  odd  appearance  of  Stone's  hands.  He  found 
himself  regarding  them  first  curiously,  then  in- 
tently, and  always  he  felt  that  in  them  lay  much  of 
the  solution  to  this  man's  life  and  past. 

40 


*R  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Once,  in  a  carefully  framed  speech  of  apparent 
unconcern,  he  laughingly  alluded  to  them,  and  won- 
dered how  Stone  would  take  the  personality. 

Stone  laid  down  his  cigar  and  stretched  both  his 
hands  before  him,  fingers  spread.  Then  he  slowly 
turned  them  and  regarded  them,  palms  uppermost, 
so  long  that  Andrew  Martin  broke  the  oppressive 
silence  with  a  short,  nervous  laugh.  At  the  sound 
Stone  dropped  his  hands  and  quietly  resumed  his 
cigar.  Then  he  looked  into  Andrew  Martin's  eyes 
and  smiled  inscrutably.  The  Scotchman  waited  for 
him  to  speak,  but  he  did  not,  and  by  and  by  the  smile 
got  on  Martin's  iron  nerve.  He  never  ventured  a 
personality  again. 

In  thinking  of  Stone  he  never  cared  to  remember 
the  incident,  nor  did  he  mention  it  in  his  infrequent 
letters  to  his  daughter.  The  letters,  when  they  did 
reach  her,  were  mostly  filled  with  accounts  of  Stone, 
and  sometimes  the  accounts  were  irritable  and 
sometimes  sarcastic.  There  was  in  them  open 
and  frank  curiosity,  but  always  respect,  and  an 
interest,  the  extent  of  which  Martin  himself  did 
not  realize. 

He  would  have  been  oddly  diverted  could  he  have 
guessed  just  how  eagerly  Blair  watched  for  letters 
that  she  usually  found  so  brief  and  dry  and  full 
of  business  plans.  He  rarely  mentioned  or  quoted 
Stone's  views;  he  studiously  avoided  any  mention 
of  mill  fifteen  or  the  safety  devices  Stone  talked  of 
for  the  third-floor  machinery;  and  thereby  he  un- 
consciously gave  his  daughter  that  which  she  then 

41 


most  longed  for  —  a  picture  of  the  man  himself. 
She  too  took  to  building  puzzles,  and  the  odd  bits 
dropped  by  her  father's  letters  fitted  in  a  wonderful 
way  into  an  outline  drawn  by  herself  from  her  brief 
knowledge  of  him.  Instinct  added  to  the  bits  that 
were  making  up  the  picture  —  and  a  strange  reti- 
cence concerning  him  whenever  she  heard  his  name 
mentioned,  and  her  own  slow  heart-beats  when  she 
thought  of  him,  helped  to  make  the  crooked  bits  fit 
better. 

At  the  end  of  August  her  father  wrote  her  again. 
It  was  a  bulky  letter,  written  in  an  unformed  hand, 
but  one  of  strength,  and  she  took  it  out  upon  the 
rocks  at  sunset  to  read  alone. 

"  Stone  is  all  right,"  it  ran  towards  the  close, 
"  but  I'm  counting  the  days  until  I  get  you  back 
again.  Heaven  knows  what  I'll  ever  do  without 
you,  Lassie,  when  the  right  man  comes  along. 
Stone  has  helped  the  loneliness  wonderfully,  but  he'll 
never  convert  me  to  his  views,  which  are  socialistic 
and  barbaric.  I  shall  be  curious  to  see  what  you 
think  of  him.  I  have  a  pretty  good  opinion  of  your 
judgment  of  men  and  women,  although  why  you 
don't  take  more  to  Mrs.  Weston-Smith  puzzles  me. 
When  you  come  home  and  get  to  know  Mr.  Stone 
better,  as  I  hope  you  will  —  " 

Blair  Martin  stopped  in  her  reading,  folded  up 
the  unfinished  letter  and  put  it  back  in  its  envelope, 
and  stared  out  across  the  bay  to  the  woods  and 
mountains  beyond.  Then  it  was  that  a  peace  not 
wholly  of  the  sunset  hour  crept  over  her,  and  she 

42 


THE   SANCTUARY 


closed  her  eyes  and  for  a  moment  laid  the  traveled 
paper  to  her  cheek. 

"  When  I  go  home  and  get  to  know  him  bet- 
ter —  "  she  murmured,  not  questioning  the  awaken- 
ing from  her  dream. 


IV. 

THE  day  had  been  one  of  intolerable  heat.  It 
had  left  its  blighting  mark  everywhere.  In 
the  dust  of  the  city  thoroughfares  men  and 
women  walked  inertly  beneath  the  burden  of  its 
sting,  and  the  city  children  paddled  their  scorched 
feet  in  the  water  from  a  leaking  main,  their  pale, 
pinched  faces  smiling  with  relief.  Out  through  the 
well-kept  country  roads  that  were  the  Common- 
wealth's pride,  oil  had  laid  the  dust  but  could  not 
touch  to  brightness  again  the  drooping  half-parched 
boughs  that  bent  and  tried  to  give  shade  to  the 
wilting  wayside  flowers  which  Stone  noticed  as  he 
passed  in  his  big  car. 

"  All  a  type  of  the  same  great  humanity,"  he 
mused,  driving  slowly  from  sheer  fatigue,  "  the 
working  men  and  women  on  the  city  streets  —  like 
these  suffering  trees  —  taking  the  burden  of  the 
heat  and  giving  us  with  our  millions  the  shade ;  the 
flowers  —  withering  and  yet  smiling  gratefully  — 
God  knows  for  what  —  like  the  children  playing  by 
the  water-main." 

The  weariness,  the  disappointment,  the  discour- 
agement of  years  was  m  his  eyes.  The  remem- 
brance of  the  day  lay  upon  him  like  a  pall.  He 
looked  down  at  his  perfectly  fitting  clothes,  his  im- 

44 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

maculate  linen,  fresh  and  new,  at  the  great  car  he 
drove,  and  then  at  his  stained  and  blackened  hands, 
and  he  smiled  grimly. 

He  had  been  on  the  point  of  telephoning  Andrew 
Martin  that  he  could  not  come  that  night,  and  then 
he  remembered  Martin's  loneliness  —  and  what  a 
last  effort  for  his  cause  would  mean,  although  the 
hopelessness  of  the  latter  lay  heavily  on  him  now  — 
and  he  had  returned  to  his  apartments,  as  perfect  in 
their  way  as  were  his  clothes  or  car,  where  the  man 
who  had  served  him  for  years,  close-mouthed  and 
watchful-eyed,  had  laid  out  all  his  things  in  readi- 
ness. There  were  other  reasons  that  had  decided 
him  to  come  to-night.  The  Scotchman's  daughter 
was  expected  back  the  next  day.  He  would  not  be 
coming  to  the  Anchorage  now  with  the  same  free- 
dom as  of  old.  After  all  —  he  had  failed  in  his 
quest  for  the  men.  Did  anything  else  matter,  he 
wondered,  remembering  Blair  Martin's  eyes. 

He  turned  in  at  the  big  gate  and  drove  slowly  up 
the  driveway  with  the  stretches  of  woodland  on 
either  side  until  he  came  within  sight  of  the  house. 
He  recalled  the  first  time  he  had  come  here,  and  he 
sometimes  wondered  why  the  scene  was  ever  newly 
pleasing  to  his  eyes.  To-day  he  looked  for  no  one, 
knowing  that  Andrew  Martin  was  always  to  be 
found  at  such  an  hour  in  the  great  library,  and  that 
the  mistress  was  away.  He  drove  slowly  up  the 
driveway  the  better  to  drink  in  the  peaceful  beauty 
of  the  scene.  To  the  right,  up  in  the  soft  sky  over 
the  garden,  hung  the  faint  outline  of  a  young  moon. 

45 


*ft  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Near  by  a  great  mimosa  tree  stood  out  in  bloom,  and 
the  pale  faces  of  moon-flowers,  shining  out  against 
the  deeper  tone  of  the  green  leaves,  covered  a  quaint 
pergola-shaped  arbor  leading  to  the  garden. 

He  entered  the  courtyard  and  the  big  car  made 
no  noise.  He  was  dimly  conscious  of  her  presence 
before  he  saw  her.  She  was  seated  in  a  low  wicker 
chair,  an  unopened  book  lying  idly  in  her  lap.  Her 
elbow  was  resting  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  her 
chin  was  in  her  hand.  So  deep  was  her  revery  that 
she  did  not  even  hear  him  descend,  and  it  was  not 
until  he  was  close  to  her  that  she  looked  up. 

She  rose  suddenly,  the  book  falling  to  the  ground. 
Her  summer  gown,  exquisitely  wrought,  of  sheerest 
fabric,  fell  about  her  in  soft  folds.  No  added  color 
betrayed  emotion  or  surprise,  but  he  saw  as  in  a 
trance  the  white  throat  throbbing  above  the  square- 
necked  dress,  and  a  fleeting  wonder  sweep  through 
her  eyes.  She  came  towards  him,  one  hand  out- 
stretched, and  the  voice  in  which  she  spoke  was  the 
voice  in  which  her  mother,  years  ago,  had  welcomed 
Andrew  Martin. 

"  You !  "  she  said  quite  simply. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  to-night,  Miss  Mar- 
tin. You  were  not  due  until  to-morrow  —  at  least 
that  is  what  I  understood  your  father  to  tell  me  the 
last  time  I  came." 

She  gave  a  low,  amused  laugh. 

"  That  need  not  worry  or  alarm  you.  I  shall  not 
interfere  with  your  long  business  talk.  But  unless 
you  want  to  go  into  the  library  alone  and  amuse 

46 


^  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

yourself,  you'll  have  to  put  up  with  my  company  for 
a  little  while.  Dinner  is  not  for  another  hour  and 
father  is  late." 

"  Your  first  night  home !  " 

"  Oh,  I've  seen  him.  He  met  me  at  the  train. 
He  forgot  to  tell  me  that  you  were  coming  to-night 
—  but  he  did  say  that  he  might  be  detained."  She 
stopped  a  moment  and  frowned  a  little.  "  He  works 
very  hard,  I  think." 

"  There  are  many  men  who  do,  Miss  Martin." 

"  I  suppose  so.  Do  you  want  to  go  into  the 
library  alone  or  stay  out  here  with  me?" 

"  What  could  I  answer  to  that  ?  "  a  little  more 
gravely  than  her  bantering  speech  had  called  for, 
"  I  suppose  I  must  say  here,  if  I  want  to  speak  the 
truth." 

"  Then  come  and  sit  down  and  watch  the  daylight 
fade.  Or  would  you  rather  go  into  the  garden  for  a 
little  while?" 

"  Let  us  sit  here." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  low  chair,  while  he  picked 
up  the  forgotten  book  for  her,  before  taking  a  chair 
himself. 

"  Some  friends  of  mine  were  coming  on  the  Port- 
land boat  last  night,  so  I  decided  to  come  earlier. 
My  father  seemed  glad  to  see  me.  I  fear  it  has  been 
rather  lonely  for  him  in  my  absence.  Your  visits 
have  been  a  great  pleasure  to  him,  Mr.  Stone." 

"  Say  rather  a  diversion,"  said  Stone,  with  a  slow 
smile. 

"  It's  strange  how  you  two  get  on  together  at  all," 

47 


THE   SANCTUARY 


said  Blair  Martin  thoughtfully.  "  It's  a  case  of  ex- 
tremes, I  suppose.  He  wrote  me  once  that  your 
views  of  life  were  socialistic  and  barbaric." 

"Did  he  indeed?" 

She  suddenly  resumed  the  old  thoughtful  position 
he  had  seen  on  entering  the  courtyard,  and  she 
looked  at  him  with  wide,  earnest  eyes. 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Stone,  it  all  rather  interests 
me  —  your  views,  I  mean.  I've  never  known  any 
one  before  that  was  both  socialistic  and  —  barbaric." 

"  Do  you  want  to  know  anything  so  strange  and 
crude?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

She  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  took  to  twisting 
the  sapphire  ring  she  wore  —  a  habit  of  hers  when 
preoccupied. 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure.  I  have  only  heard  of  such 
things  vaguely.  They  have  never  meant  anything 
to  me  but  mobs,  violence  and  disorder,  but  I  sup- 
pose there  is  another  side." 

He  leaned  forward  eagerly. 

"  There  is  another  side,  Miss  Martin." 

"  So  I  suppose  —  yet  from  the  point  of  view  we 
hold  —  we  who  have  the  money  —  "  she  broke  off. 

"  That  is  not  the  point  of  view  of  all  who  have 
money,  Miss  Martin,"  he  replied,  significantly. 

She  flushed  a  little. 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  "  that  you  have  great  wealth, 
too,  and  yet  your  views  are  different.  I  think  it  is 
that  fact  that  interests  me  in  your  work.  You  live 
as  we  do  —  and  you  seem  to  think  like  them." 

He  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  and  stretched  out 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

his  hands  as  he  had  done  one  night  in  the  big  library 
with  Andrew  Martin,  but  to-night  the  look  in  his 
eyes  was  different. 

"  I  do  not  always  live  '  like  folks/  "  he  said,  his 
grave  smile  returning.  "  I  could  not  altogether  feel 
for  them  as  I  do  unless  —  "  He  broke  off  and  he 
stretched  out  one  hand  across  the  space  that  sepa- 
rated them  for  her  to  see.  For  a  moment  she  re- 
garded it  in  silence  —  its  roughened  texture,  its 
blunted  finger  ends,  its  stained  and  darkened  hue,  a 
slow  wonder  growing  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  —  work  —  with  —  them  ?  "   she  breathed. 

"  For  months  at  a  time,  Miss  Martin." 

"But  why?" 

"  Can  we  learn  the  lay  of  a  country  —  the  flora 
and  the  fauna  —  something  more  than  maps  and 
guide-books  can  give  us  —  how  the  natives  dress 
and  live  and  why  —  the  language  that  they  speak, 
unless  we  go  there  and  see  it  for  ourselves  and  learn 
the  language,  too?" 

She  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"  I  never  thought,"  she  said. 

"  So  few  do,  Miss  Martin  —  I  mean  those  like 
us  with  millions.  I  did  not  think  myself  until  one 
day  a  friend  of  mine  —  a  young  physician  —  took 
me  with  him  on  his  rounds.  His  practice  was  not 
a  fashionable  one.  His  pay  consisted  mostly  of 
blessings  —  sometimes  curses.  I  saw  a  dying  crip- 
ple give  his  last  crust  to  a  starving  child  —  " 

She  sat  quite  still,  looking  at  him.  Her  face  was 
very  white. 

49 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"Are  such  things  really  true?" 

"  Do  you  want  to  see  for  yourself?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  not  sure.  The  thought  frightens  me  a 
little.  It  seems  as  though  I  could  never  be  happy 
again  if  —  if  I  saw  a  thing  like  that." 

"  You  will  learn  to  be  happy." 

"  Will  I  ?  —  I  suppose  you  know." 

"  Some  day,  if  you  want  to,  I  will  give  you  a 
letter  to  a  friend  of  mine  —  a  woman.  She  lives 
among  them.  She  has  given  up  her  life  to  them. 
She  will  teach  you,  if  you  really  care  to  learn  — 
slowly,  and  not  more  than  you  can  bear  at  a  time." 
He  was  watching  her  closely. 

A  faint  color  crept  into  her  Cheeks.  She  did  not 
question  nor  understand  the  dim  resentment  she 
suddenly  felt  towards  this  other  woman. 

"  Perhaps.  Could  she  teach  me  more  than  — 
you  ?  "  she  asked  a  little  shyly. 

He  rose  quickly.  Could  he  teach  her?  If  he 
only  might! 

"  I  am  not  sure.  Perhaps  in  some  ways  she 
knows  more  about  them  than  I  do.  Her  woman's 
intuition  often  discerns  things  where  I  fail  And 
I  —  I  am  busy  most  of  the  day,"  he  looked  down 
with  a  slight  smile  at  his  discolored  hands. 

She  saw  the  smile  —  the  look.  Again  she  wished 
he  had  not  mentioned  this  co-worker.  What  could 
the  lives  of  those  she  knew  —  her  own  life  —  hold 
of  interest  to  him  when  there  lived  women  like  the 
one  of  whom  he  spoke  ? 

"I  forgot.    Your  hours  are  long?" 

50 


*g  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

"  Not  so  long  for  one  looking  for  experience  — 
who  can  give  it  up  at  any  .time  —  although,  strong 
as  I  am,  I  get  very  tired  sometimes  —  but  very  long 
for  the  others  who  know  they  cannot  rest  for  a  day, 
an  hour,  for  fear  of  want  to  others.  Then  I  have 
thought  as  I  watched  them  that  their  fatigue  must 
sometimes  become  an  agony  that  only  death  can 
end." 

"  Where  do  you  work?  "  she  questioned. 

"  In  some  mills,  Miss  Martin,"  he  answered. 

Something  in  his  voice  forbade  further  ques- 
tioning. She  was  silent. 

"  I  do  not  go  by  my  own  name,  of  course.  I  am 
registered  on  the  books  as  one  Joe  Blackburn.  The 
men  call  me  Joe  Blackie.  Not  altogether  so  incon- 
gruous." He  laughed  a  little. 

The  laugh  jarred  on  her. 

"  How  can  you  jest !  Yet  surely  they  must  see 
and  feel  and  know  —  the  difference,  the  difference 
between  you  and  themselves." 

"  Perhaps,  but  some  of  them  have  seen  before  the 
strange  phenomenon  of  a  gentleman  forced  to  work 
—  his  money  gone ;  or  of  a  man  having  to  begin  at 
the  bottom  and  working  upward  by  sheer  force  of 
will." 

"  That's  what  my  father  did,"  she  said,  lifting 
her  head  a  little,  "  I  am  very  proud  of  my  father." 

"  One  of  the  best  fellows  I  ever  knew,"  he  went 
on,  apparently  not  hearing  her  remark,  "  was  a  man 
born  to  the  best  of  everything.  The  crash  came 
and  found  him,  as  it  finds  so  many  rich  men's  sons, 

51 


THE   SANCTUARY 


unprepared  for  any  real  work  in  life,  and  because  he 
was  too  much  of  a  man  to  live  by  debt  he  drove  a 
milk  wagon  for  four  years  —  until  he  could  start  a 
dairy  of  his  own." 

"  You  live  in  a  very  different  world  from  mine, 
Mr.  Stone,"  she  said,  rising  from  her  chair.  "  I 
shall  always  remember  that.  I  must  tell  the  house- 
keeper to  be  very  careful  how  she  addresses  the 
tradespeople  after  this."  A  faint  smile  crept  around 
her  mouth.  "  I  cannot  think  what  is  detaining  my 
father.  Shall  we  walk  out  in  the  grounds  for  a 
little  while  ?  And  tell  me  —  the  name  of  this  friend 
who  is  to  show  me  things  I  have  never  dreamed 
existed  except  in  the  brains  of  madmen  and  social- 
ists and  the  writers  of  sensational  books  ?  " 

He  followed  her  out  of  the  courtyard  into  the 
wide  grounds  beyond,  and  they  crossed  the  lawn 
together. 

"  Her  name  is  as  simple  as  her  life  —  almost  as 
plain  as  her  face  —  Miss  Smith  —  Georgiana 
Smith."  He  smiled  as  at  a  remembrance  that  made 
him  glad.  She  had  glanced  once  into  his  face. 
Then  with  lips  that  went  suddenly  white  she  looked 
away. 

"  She  is  unmarried  ?  " 

Her  voice  was  a  monotone. 

"  Yes,  and  always  will  be,"  he  said  gently. 
"  Some  one  told  me  once  about  her  life  —  one  who 
had  known  her  always.  She  and  happiness  passed 
each  other  on  the  road,  but  she  never  called  '  quits/ 
and  when  you  see  her  you  will  understand  how, 

52 


THE   SANCTUARY 


further  on,  she  found  peace  waiting  for  her  at  the 
turn." 

Blair  Martin  clasped  and  unclasped  her  fingers 
tightly  in  the  falling  dusk. 

"  O-h  !  "  she  breathed  with  the  hushed  pity  one 
will  show  for  something  hurt.  And  then  the  pity 
slowly  died  from  her  eyes  and  something  else  crept 
there  instead  —  a  look  of  which  she  was  not  aware. 

"  Let  me  go  to  her." 

"  I  will,"  he  answered. 

Hurried  footsteps  came  to  them  from  the  drive- 
way. Instinctively  both  turned. 

Brewster,  the  butler,  was  coming  hastily  towards 
them.  When  he  was  close  to  them  he  stopped  and 
stood  waiting. 

"Well,  Brewster?" 

"  If  you  please,  Miss  Martin,"  said  Brewster,  very 
much  flushed  from  his  hasty  search  for  them, 
"  there's  a  telephone  message  from  your  father. 
He  says  he's  been  detained  so  late,  he's  dining  in 
town  with  Mr.  Jenkins.  He  says  please  not  to  wait 
dinner  for  him,  and  for  Mr.  Stone  to  be  sure  and 
stay.  He's  something  very  important  to  talk  over 
with  him  when  he  gets  back.  That's  all,  Miss  Mar- 
tin." 

"  Very  well,  Brewster.     You  may  go." 

After  he  was  out  of  hearing  she  turned  to  Stone. 

"You  heard?" 

"  Perfectly." 

"  Do  you  —  want  to  stay  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  quite  steadily. 

S3 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  Do  you  want  me  to  stay?  "  he  asked. 

"  Is  it  what  I  want?  "  she  asked  evasively.  "  My 
father  will  be  disappointed  to  come  and  find  you 
gone.  It  is  —  it  must  be  past  the  dinner  hour  now. 
You  must  be  hungry." 

"  That  is  kind  of  you  to  think  of  me  —  perhaps 
I  am.  I  have  worked  pretty  hard  to-day." 

But  later,  at  the  table,  he  only  played  with  his 
dinner,  and  he  wondered  why  she  scarcely  touched 
her  own.  Odd  thoughts,  strangely  unattached  to 
the  courses  laid  out  before  them  one  by  one,  beset 
him.  Who  could  care  for  a  transparent  soup  when 
from  the  shadows  of  the  lighted  candles  in  their 
great  silver  sconces,  her  eyes  shone  out,  veiled  and 
shining,  at  the  table's  head  ?  While  the  butlers  with 
deft  hands  and  silent  feet  brought  and  carried  the 
courses  that  they  scarcely  tasted,  he  talked  the  small 
talk  of  the  hour;  and  Georgiana  Smith,  living  in 
the  settlement  house,  and  the  cripple  and  the  starv- 
ing child  receded  into  the  shadows  of  memory,  as 
the  objects  without  the  arc  of  the  candle's  light  were 
lost  in  the  far  dim  corners  of  the  room.  And  yet 
beneath  the  small  talk,  like  the  faint  wind  that  can- 
not stir  the  great  depths,  his  inner  thoughts  flowed 
on.  She  became  part  and  parcel  of  that  room  to 
him,  and  he  never  entered  it  again  without  seeing 
her  there  as  he  saw  her  now  —  leaning  back  in  the 
great  carved  chair  of  blackened  oak,  her  arm  lying 
on  the  chair's  arm,  white  and  still  —  those  veiled 
wistful  shadows  in  her  eyes  —  her  exquisite  gown 
shining  in  the  light  and  lying  in  soft  folds  at  her 

54 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

feet.  Like  a  lost  mariner  who  for  a  moment,  at 
sight  of  some  enchanted  isle,  forgets  the  perils  and 
fatigue,  the  thirst  and  hunger  of  the  days  gone  — 
of  those  ahead  —  so  he  sat  and  looked  and  thought 
of  her,  for  a  brief  time  unmindful  that  he  was  drift- 
ing towards  harm. 

For  her  neither  time  nor  place  existed.  As  in  a 
dream  she  listened  to  his  voice,  replied  to  his  ques- 
tions, laughed  at  some  light  remark,  mechanically 
by  a  word  or  nod  communicated  with  the  servants 
in  the  room. 

After  the  fruit  had  been  passed  —  which  they 
both  refused  —  she  pushed  back  her  chair  and  rose. 

"  In  summer  we  always  have  the  coffee  on  the 
terrace,"  she  said  simply,  "  or  do  you  prefer  it 
here?" 

"  I  have  always  had  it  on  the  terrace,"  he  said, 
rising  too.  "  It  is  too  perfect  a  night  to  stay  in- 
doors. May  I  get  a  wrap  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  I  need  one." 

"  You  had  better." 

Her  heart  beat  wildly  at  the  simple  words.  Was 
it  only  a  formality  or  did  he  care  if  she  were  cold? 

She  led  the  way  to  the  terrace,  stopping  to  gather 
from  the  hall  settle  a  soft  silk  shawl  which  she  threw 
around  her  shoulders.  Together  they  stepped  out 
upon  the  terrace,  where,  in  a  low  wicker  chair,  she 
sat  down. 

"  How  still  the  night  is,"  he  said ;  "  how  far  off 
the  stars ! " 

She  leaned  back,  looking  up  to  the  night  skies. 

55 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

It  was  quite  dark  now  except  for  the  starlight  and 
the  young  moon  that  hung  above  the  garden  like  a 
celestial  lamp. 

She  did  not  answer  him.  To  herself  she  said, 
"  How  sweet  the  night  is  and  how  bright  the  stars." 

In  an  abstracted  way  she  shook  her  head  when 
Brewster  passed  the  coffee  on  a  silver  tray,  watch- 
ing Stone  as  he  took  his  cup  in  silence.  He  was 
still  standing,  and  he  looked  upon  the  fragile  bit  of 
Minton  for  a  moment  with  unseeing  eyes.  Was 
anything  quite  real?  Was  the  garish  day,  with  all 
its  labor  and  distress  and  heat,  a  dream  —  was  this 
the  reality  —  this  ? 

She  did  not  speak  as  he  slowly  drank  the  coffee 
and  put  the  cup  down  on  a  wicker  table  near  by. 

"May  I  smoke?" 

"  Of  course." 

He  drew  a  cigar-case  out  of  his  pocket.  In  the 
light  streaming  out  to  them  from  the  great  hall,  she 
could  see  that  it  was  of  lizard  skin  with  a  fine  bind- 
ing of  gold,  his  initials  in  one  corner.  His  indi- 
viduality was  stamped  upon  it  as  clearly  as  the  let- 
ters. There  was  nothing  out  of  place  in  it  to  her  — 
no  remembrance  just  then  of  the  discolored  hands 
that  touched  it,  or  of  Joe  Blackie.  Other  men  had 
smoked  in  her  presence  before  from  cigar-cases  that 
had  probably  cost  double  what  his  did.  Yet  she  had 
not  even  noticed  them.  It  is  probable  that  if  Joe 
Blackburn  in  his  coarse  jeans  had  stood  before  her 
then,  she  would  have  taken  his  rough  clothes  and 
tattered  hat  and  cigarette  much  as  she  was  taking 

56 


THE   SANCTUARY 


the  cigar-case  bound  in  gold  —  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Wealth  and  position  were  as  things  apart. 
His  face  —  his  voice  were  the  only  really  prom- 
inent things  to  her. 

The  faint  flare  of  the  match  gave  an  added  color 
to  his  face  as  he  lighted  his  cigar  slowly.  He  drew 
on  it  a  moment,  then  regarded  its  lighted  end  with 
feigned  interest  and  put  it  back  in  his  mouth.  He 
smoked  but  seldom.  To-night  he  was  conscious 
that  he  needed  the  stimulant  and  the  comfort  of  a 
cigar. 

He  paced  up  and  down  in  front  of  her  in  silence, 
and  in  silence  she  watched  him.  The  things  of 
speech  seemed  far  away  —  as  far  away  as  the  stars 
in  the  night  sky. 

By  and  by  he  stopped  before  her. 

"  Your  father  will  be  here  soon.  Will  you  enter- 
tain me  just  a  little  longer  —  will  you  come  into  the 
garden  with  me  ?  I  can  see  it  from  here  —  I  can 
smell  the  roses.  The  moon-flowers  are  in  bloom, 
and  the  mimosa  tree  —  how  pink  it  is  !  " 

"  The  mimosa  tree  came  from  my  mother's  home 
in  the  far  south.  It  seems  a  part  of  her." 

"  Beautiful  !    How  have  you  ever  raised  it  here  ?  " 

"  Under  glass  at  first.  Thomas's  care  did  much 
—  the  love  my  father  and  I  gave  it  —  more."  She 
smiled  faintly.  To-night  even  her  grief  for  her 
mother  was  lulled  to  rest.  Had  not  her  father  first 
seen  her  mother  under  a  mimosa  tree? 

Then  his  voice  came  to  her. 

"Will  you  come?" 

57 


THE   SANCTUARY 


She  rose  as  one  still  in  a  dream,  and  as  in  a 
dream  she  followed  him,  and  she  never  paused  to 
wonder  that  he,  here  in  her  own  home,  was  leading 
and  directing  her. 

Stiller  than  the  hush  of  sunrise,  the  night  lay 
above,  around  them,  and  stiller  than  the  night  were 
their  mute  lips.  Once  he  paused  and  leaned  down 
to  free  her  dress  carefully  from  the  thorns  of  a  rose- 
bush growing  by  the  path.  She  looked  down  at  his 
bent  head  and  her  eyes  grew  darker  and  deeper  than 
the  night.  After  a  while  they  began  to  walk  again. 
Once  she  shivered  and  drew  the  shawl  a  little  closer. 

"You  are  cold?" 

She  shook  her  head.  Would  she  ever  be  cold 
again,  she  wondered. 

He  turned  toward  the  house.  How  like  her  face 
were  the  moon-flowers  they  had  left  ! 

The  sudden  sound  of  heavy  wheels  and  an  auto- 
mobile horn  broke  discordantly  upon  their  senses. 

"  It  is  my  father,"  she  said. 

Under  the  mimosa  tree  they  paused.  The  thick 
shade  hid  his  ashen  face  —  his  deep-set  eyes.  He 
spoke  as  a  man  speaks  who  has  suddenly  awa- 
kened. 

"  You  will  say  nothing  to  any  one  about  Joe 
Blackie?  Only  a  very  few  know  the  real  truth." 

"  I  will  not  betray  you,"  she  said  very  gently, 
wondering  what  made  his  voice  so  strange. 

The  words  cut  him  as  a  sudden  thrust  cuts  — 
sharp  and  deep. 

"I  can  trust  you  always,"  he  said,  and  then  as 

58 


THE   SANCTUARY 


by  a  mute  consent  he  turned  and  left  her  beneath  the 
mimosa  tree,  and  made  his  way  slowly  towards  the 
house. 

For  a  little  while  she  stood  where  he  had  left  her, 
looking  out  on  the  garden,  and  then  up  to  the  far- 
off  worlds  in  space.  She  had  never  known  before 
all  that  beauty  stood  for,  and  she  knew  it  to-night 
as  she  never  would  again. 

By  and  by  she  crept  into  the  house,  the  soft  white 
shawl  about  her,  her  hands  clasped  against  her 
breast.  She  walked  as  one  might  walk  who  bears 
an  alabaster  vase  of  priceless  ointment  —  as  though 
one  misstep  or  any  undue  haste  might  shatter  the 
treasure  at  her  feet.  .  .  .  She  went  the  length  of 
the  great  hall,  passing  the  library,  from  where  she 
heard  his  voice.  She  smiled.  Then  she  mounted 
the  big  staircase,  and  still  smiling  she  reached  her 
room.  She  did  not  turn  on  the  lights  but  crossed 
the  space  to  the  window  and  sat  looking  over  the 
garden  again  and  waited  to  see  his  car  go  down 
the  long  driveway. 

How  long  she  was  there  she  did  not  know.  For 
her,  time  no  longer  existed.  By  and  by  her  ears, 
acutely  keen,  heard  her  father's  footsteps  and  his 
descend  into  the  courtyard.  Then  there  came  to 
her  their  voices  in  parting  —  she  was  conscious  of 
only  his  —  and  then  the  sound  of  his  car  as  it 
emerged  and  started  down  the  driveway. 

Stone,  his  hand  on  the  steering-wheel,  looked 
neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left.  The  breath  of  the 
late  roses  from  the  garden  came  to  him  upon  the 

59 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

night's  breeze  and  turned  him  sick.  Could  he  ever 
see  or  smell  a  rose  again,  he  wondered. 

Once  past  the  entrance  gates  and  out  on  the  main 
road  he  slowed  down  and  looked  up  at  the  white 
cold  stars.  How  fearfully  cold  they  were,  he 
thought,  —  how  infinitely  far  away. 

"  My  God !  "  he  said.  Then  more  slowly,  "  Oh  — 
my  — God!" 

And  up  in  her  room,  Blair  Martin  stood  by  the 
window  before  she  drew  the  white  curtains  to,  look- 
ing out  on  the  garden  where  stood  the  mimosa  tree 
and  where  the  moon-flowers  cast  their  shade. 


60 


V. 

THE  summer  sun  rose  warm  and  bright  and 
lay  in  patches  on  the  lawn  shaded  by  the 
trees.  A  soft  breeze  stirred  their  branches 
and  played  among  the  flowers  in  the  garden  where 
Thomas  worked  uninterrupted  by  his  mistress. 

At  ten,  Andrew  Martin  drove  off  to  the  mills  in 
his  car.  At  one,  the  maid  brought  his  daughter  a 
lunch  in  her  room  on  a  big  silver  tray,  which  she 
allowed  to  be  carried  off  half  an  hour  later,  un- 
touched. As  the  sun  began  to  sink  and  the  shadows 
to  creep  over  the  garden  and  the  lawn,  she  dressed 
herself  for  the  evening  and  went  downstairs.  All 
day  she  had  kept  her  room,  living  in  the  dream  of 
the  night  before  and  watching  the  turn  in  the  long 
carriage  drive  from  her  window.  Once  she  glanced 
from  the  west  window  towards  the  garden.  She 
would  go  into  the  garden  again  —  with  him  — 
when  he  came.  At  five  she  heard  her  father  return- 
ing and  went  to  meet  him.  It  might  be  that  he  had 
picked  up  some  friend  and  brought  him  out  to  din- 
ner; but  her  father  descended  from  the  automobile 
alone,  and  had  he  not  been  so  preoccupied  with 
thoughts  of  business  he  would  have  been  struck 
with  a  new  look  in  her  face. 

At  half  after  seven  they  went  into  the  big  dining- 

_    61 


THE   SANCTUARY 


room  and  sat  down.  She  had  never  noticed  before 
how  big  and  lonely  it  was,  and  she  began  to  shiver 
in  spite  of  the  warm  evening,  and  sent  Brewster 
for  a  shawl.  He  brought  her  the  white  silk  one 
from  the  settle  in  the  hall  and  she  trembled  as  she 
put  it  around  her.  It  helped  her,  though,  as  a 
human  touch  helps  when  one  is  in  need. 

Later,  Brewster  brought  the  coffee  out  on  the 
terrace,  and  she  sat  by  her  father,  not  heeding  what 
he  said  and  looking  far  off  toward  the  driveway. 
After  a  while  the  Scotchman  rose  and  went  into  the 
library,  where  he  sat  down  to  smoke  and  read  the 
papers.  Now  and  then  as  he  turned  the  pages  he 
paused  to  wonder  what  made  Blair's  face  so  white. 
For  a  while  she  sat  with  him  and  then  crossed  the 
hall  to  the  music  room,  where  she  took  her  violin 
from  its  case  and  abstractedly  drew  the  bow  across 
the  strings.  One  low  sweet  tone  came  forth  from  the 
inanimate  thing  like  a  human  call.  It  startled  her 
and  she  put  the  instrument  back  and  closed  the  lid. 
She  could  not  play  to-night.  She  could  not  go  into 
the  garden.  She  turned  off  the  lights  and  stood  in 
the  darkness  by  the  window.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
all  day,  and  now,  she  could  do  nothing  but  watch 
the  driveway  and  its  turn. 

The  night  passed  —  she  knew  not  how  —  and 
day  succeeded  day  and  night  succeeded  night,  and 
a  whole  week  passed  and  still  Stone  did  not  come. 
The  week  slipped  into  two  and  the  two  weeks  into  a 
month.  September  came  and  brought  cooler  days 
and  nights,  and  from  her  west  window  she  watched 

62 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

the  moon  rise  to  its  full,  then  wane.  Some  of  the 
trees  began  to  turn  their  leaves,  and  in  the  garden, 
in  spite  of  the  able  care  of  Thomas  and  his  assist- 
ants, the  moon-flowers  and  the  roses  drooped  and 
faded. 

She  never  questioned  her  father  as  to  his  where- 
abouts —  exactly  why,  she  did  not  know.  One 
night  in  October  the  Scotchman  looked  over  his 
glasses  at  his  daughter  as  he  laid  his  paper  down, 
with  the  remark : 

"  Did  I  tell  you  —  Stone  went  away  last  month  ?  " 

He  watched  her  closely  and  she  was  conscious  of 
the  glance.  After  a  little  she  picked  up  some  fancy 
work  lying  idly  in  her  lap  and  commenced  slowly 
to  sew. 

"  Is  that  so?    Where  did  he  go?  " 

"How  should  I  know?"  said  the  Scotchman,  a 
little  shortly.  He  had  noticed  that  Blair's  hands 
were  trembling  in  spite  of  her  quiet  voice.  "  We  had 
a  disagreement  when  he  was  here  last  —  oh,  noth- 
ing serious,"  he  added  hastily,  seeing  his  daughter 
look  up  in  surprise,  "  only  I  couldn't  agree  with  him 
in  detail  as  to  some  of  his  views.  I  never  will. 
He's  socialistic  and  barbaric,  as  I've  said  before  — 
and  that's  all  there  is  about  it." 

She  was  silent.  What  could  she  say  and  hide  her 
secret  still? 

"  He's  visionary  and  dreamy  and  unpractical,  as 
they  all  are,"  went  on  the  Scotchman  irritably: 
"  think  they  can  tell  us,  men  double  their  age,  with 
five  times  their  experience,  how  to  run  our  jobs, 

63 


THE   SANCTUARY 


and  all  the  time  they  dress  immaculately  and  drive 
expensive  cars." 

She  opened  her  lips  in  quick  defense,  remember- 
ing the  discolored  hands.  Then  she  shut  them  again 
and  went  on  with  her  work. 

"  It's  ridiculous  —  that's  what  it  is  —  and  it  puts 
me  out  of  all  patience." 

Some  personal  note  in  her  father's  voice  arrested 
her.  She  put  her  work  down  in  her  lap  and  looked 
at  him  from  across  the  library  table. 

"  Has  he  said  anything  about  the  mills  ?  " 

Martin  picked  up  his  paper  suddenly.  He  was 
acutely  conscious  that  his  daughter  was  looking  at 
him  and  waiting  for  an  answer. 

"  Oh,  he  talked  a  lot  of  rot  he  knew  nothing 
about.  Don't  worry  your  pretty  head  over  it,  my 
dear." 

She  said  no  more  and  he  was  grateful.  Blair 
had  an  uncomfortable  way  sometimes  of  plying  one 
with  questions.  He  sighed  a  little  in  relief  as  he 
turned  to  the  political  news,  and  by  and  by,  when 
she  left  him  to  practise  for  a  while,  he  thought  she 
had  forgotten. 

She  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  the  exercises 
that  evening,  and  for  the  first  time  in  weeks  was 
absorbed  in  something  other  than  Stone's  comings 
and  goings.  She  had  not  questioned  her  father 
further  for  two  reasons.  Experience  had  taught  her 
no  information  could  be  extracted  from  him  in  such 
a  mood,  and  again  she  had  no  desire  to  have  him 
learn  by  long  discussion  just  what  was  in  her  heart. 


THE   SANCTUARY 


But  she  pondered  over  his  remarks  to  the  exclusion 
of  her  music,  and  she  was  still  thinking  of  them 
when,  at  half  past  ten,  she  went  upstairs  to  bed. 

In  the  big  library  Martin  laid  his  thoroughly 
read  paper  down,  and  replaced  his  glasses  in  their 
case.  He  sat  for  a  long  while  staring  straight  ahead 
of  him.  In  the  last  month,  in  the  stress  of  increased 
activities  at  the  mills,  he  had  almost  forgotten 
Stone  until  to-day  he  had  seen  in  the  papers  an 
item  as  to  his  return.  He  had  not  shown  it  to  his 
daughter  for  various  reasons.  He  was  trying  to 
fit  the  pieces  together  in  the  enigma  once  more  — 
a  task  that  he  had  for  a  while  abandoned.  He  was 
remembering  his  daughter's  face  as  it  had  looked 
to-night,  and  how  white  it  was.  With  an  impatient 
gesture  he  rose  quickly. 

"  Damn  that  man,"  he  said. 


VL 

OXE  morning  towards  die  end  of  October, 
Blair  Martin  came  down  the  steps  of  the 
Conservatory,  noon-case  in  fcami^  and 
crossed  die  pavement  where  her  roadster  stood  by 
the  curb.  Two  or  three  of  die  other  pupus,  shab- 
bily enough  dressed,  nudged  each  other  as  she 
passed  in  her  plain  well-fitting  tailor  suit.  Two 
small  boys  of  die  streets  were  standing  by  the  car 
talking  in  earnest  voices.  They  jumped  quickly  to 
one  side  as  she  came  towards  diem  and  stowed  the 
violin  case  under  die  seat,  and  then  proceeded  to  tie 
on  her  big  brae  vefl.  She  had  not  heeded  die  other 
students  on  die  steps,  but  something  in  these  chil- 
dren's faces  arrested  her  attention, 

*"  Want  me  to  crank  up,  Miss?  "  asked  the  eldest. 

The  younger  pulled  at  his  coat. 

"  Say,  there!    Leave  de  lady  alone." 

Blair  Martin  looked  toward  die  first 

"Do  you  know  how?"  she  asked. 

"Sure  I  do.    Give  me  a  try?" 

The  eagerness  —  die  pride 

Hfcjir  flflartm  smiled. 

"AD  right.    Go  ahead,"  she  said. 

The  boy  went  to  his  task  with  a  win,  his  com- 
panion and  Miss  Martin  watching  him  with  vary- 

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*g  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

ing  emotions.  How  shabby  his  shoes  were  —  how 
thin  his  coat  —  how  rough  his  hands  —  something 
like  —  like  Hector  Stone's  hands. 

The  engine  began  its  familiar  pulsing  tune  and 
Miss  Martin  started  to  step  into  the  car.  A  fee  was 
in  her  hand.  Then  she  saw  the  other  boy  —  the 
smaller  of  the  two.  If  possible  he  was  shabbier  than 
his  companion  and  there  was  a  look  in  his  eyes  she 
had  once  remembered  seeing  in  those  of  Ajax,  her 
prize  St.  Bernard,  when  he  had  been  stolen  and  had 
not  been  recovered  for  a  week.  She  remembered 
hearing  Brewster  say  he  had  been  —  starved. 

With  a  sudden  impulse  she  turned  to  the  two 
children. 

"Want  a  ride?" 

They  glanced  at  each  other,  a  queer  look  slowly 
spreading  over  their  faces.  Then  the  eldest  gave  a 
nervous  laugh. 

"  A-h  —  quit  kiddin'  us,"  he  said. 

Something  in  his  twitching  lips  belied  the  bravado 
of  his  words. 

"  I'm  not  fooling  —  indeed  I'm  not,"  said  Miss 
Martin.  She  was  hardly  aware  herself  how  earnest 
was  her  voice. 

They  looked  at  each  other  again.  Then  with  a 
defiant  shake  of  the  shoulders  the  eldest  stepped 
in  and  took  the  seat  beside  her. 

The  smaller  boy  watched  his  companion  half 
fearfully,  then  he  hopped  into  the  rumble  and  Miss 
Martin  let  in  the  clutch  and  started. 

In  silence  they  passed  the  Children's  Hospital  on 

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the  corner,  some  of  the  little  patients  watching  them 
curiously  from  their  wheel-chairs  on  the  black  iron 
porches.  Miss  Martin  glanced  away  as  they  passed. 
She  had  always  given  liberally  to  the  children's 
cause  on  the  first  of  the  year,  and  on  Christmas  Eve 
she  had  gone  there  and  distributed  a  big  basketful 
of  toys.  At  Easter  she  had  sent  ice-cream  and 
oranges  and  gone  herself  in  the  afternoon  to  see  that 
no  one  was  forgotten,  but  it  seemed  to  her  she  had 
never  known  what  the  children's  cause  might  mean 
in  all  its  entirety  until  to-day.  She  turned  a  corner 
carefully,  remembering  the  boy  in  the  rumble,  and 
then,  as  block  after  block  they  left  the  city  streets 
behind,  she  let  the  car  out  to  greater  speed,  but  her 
thoughts  ran  faster  still.  So  engrossed  was  she 
with  them  that  she  was  not  aware  she  had  not 
spoken  since  the  ride  began,  and  it  never  occurred 
to  the  children  to  break  the  silence. 

By  and  by  she  was  aroused  by  seeing  the  boy 
beside  her  lean  forward  intently  and  look  down  the 
long  winding  suburban  road  in  front  of  him. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked.    "  What  do  you  see?  " 

He  looked  at  her,  a  quizzical  smile  breaking  over 
his  face. 

"I  'spect  it  ain't  anything  wonderful  to  you,  but 
gee  —  them  houses  and  them  trees  !  " 

She  stared  a  little.  Was  it  possible  he  was  in 
earnest  ?  And  she  had  seen  those  houses  and  those 
trees  nearly  all  her  life. 

"  Are  you  brothers  ?  "  she  asked  irrelevantly. 

"  Naw  "  —  apparently  surprised  at  her  lack  of 

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«g  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

discernment.  "  Tim's  just  my  pal  —  even  if  he  is 
little  — that's  all." 

"  So  you're  just  friends.  Good  friends  are  pretty 
nice  things  to  have." 

"  You  bet  yer  life."  Then  hesitatingly,  "  Do  you 
care  if  I  chew  gum?  " 

"  Why  —  why,  I  suppose  not,  but  we  can't  get 
any  around  here." 

"  Oh,  me  and  Tim  picked  some  up  on  the  street 
while  we  was  watching  de  car."  And  the  boy  beside 
her  took  something  out  of  his  pocket  and  put  it  in 
his  mouth.  She  was  conscious  that  Tim,  behind 
her,  was  following  his  example.  She  slowed  down 
a  little,  a  sick  feeling  in  her  stomach. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  she  asked,  keeping  her 
eyes  rigidly  in  front  of  her. 

"  I'm  eight  —  my  name's  Chris.  It's  really  Chris- 
topher Columbus,  you  know,  but  I  don't  let  de  gang 
know  —  'cept  Tim,  of  course  —  dey'd  guy  me. 
Tim's  six,"  and  Chris  settled  further  down  in  his 
seat  and  began  to  munch  on  his  gum  in  earnest. 
His  attitude  and  face  suggested  that  he  did  not  wish 
to  be  further  disturbed.  Still  Tim  in  the  rumble 
said  nothing,  but  he  could  have  told  you  the  exact 
shade  of  Miss  Martin's  veil  and  how  many  hat-pins 
were  hidden  beneath  it. 

Miss  Martin  turned  to  him  suddenly  —  so  sud- 
denly that  Tim,  who  had  been  counting  the  polka 
dots  on  the  two  neat  quills  of  her  hat,  jumped  and 
nearly  lost  his  balance. 

"  Take  care,  Sonny." 

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Tim  smiled  tremulously.  It  seemed  to  Miss  Mar- 
tin she  had  never  seen  a  smile  like  that  on  a  child's 
face  —  certainly  she  had  never  seen  the  children  of 
her  friends  smile  so.  It  lighted  up  the  pinched  face 
as  a  ray  of  sunlight  lights  up  the  grayness  of  a 
cloud.  She  could  not  meet  his  eyes. 

"  A  little  way  from  here  there  is  a  drug  store. 
How  would  you  and  Chris  like  to  have  some  soda 
water?"  She  mentioned  them  both,  but  she  was 
thinking  just  then  of  Tim.  "  Have  you  ever  had 
any  soda  water  ?  "  she  asked  gently. 

Tim  carefully  stuck  his  bit  of  gum  to  the  side 
of  his  cheek  by  aid  of  his  tongue.  He  gulped  a 
little. 

"  Yes'm,  —  once,"  he  said,  "  but  —  " 

He  hesitated. 

"Yes?  "she  said  kindly. 

"  If  you  don't  care  —  maybe  Chris  wants  the 
soda  —  but  I'd  —  I'd  rather  have  a  wienerwurst 
sausage." 

She  met  his  eyes  now. 

"I  —  perhaps  I  don't  quite  understand  —  "  she 
began,  unwilling  to  admit  a  truth  Tim's  eyes  had 
been  forcing  on  her  from  the  start. 

"  A-h,  why  don't  yer  tell  de  lady  yer  ain't  had 
enough  grub  ?  "  put  in  Chris  curtly,  and  turning 
around  in  his  seat  to  speak  to  Tim.  "  He  don't 
mean  ter  be  unthankful,  Miss,"  he  added  in  a  milder 
voice  to  Blair  Martin,  "  and  I  'spect  the  fizz  stufFll 
taste  crackin'  fine  by  and  by,  but  he's  jest  holler 
now." 

70 


m 


Miss  Martin  did  not  turn  to  him  as  he  was  speak- 
ing; she  only  kept  her  eyes  on  Tim,  whose  small 
pinched  face  suddenly  became  scarlet. 

"  Is  that  true  ?  "  she  asked  him.  Her  voice  was 
the  gentlest  he  had  ever  heard. 

"  I'm  —  I'm  right  —  empty,"  he  said. 

That  night,  sitting  by  her  window,  she  thought  it 
all  over,  and  something  of  what  life  was  and  meant 
came  to  her,  and  she  awoke  dimly  to  a  knowledge 
of  what  Hector  Stone  was  working  for.  Not  until 
to-night,  looking  out  over  the  garden  where  only 
a  few  chrysanthemums  slept,  had  she  permanently 
connected  Stone's  labor  with  his  life.  Not  until  to- 
night had  the  desire  of  sharing  it  with  him  come 
over  her.  At  least,  if  he  failed  to  come  —  if  he  had 
forgotten  that  summer  night  that  had  meant  so 
much  to  her  —  this  much  was  left,  a  sharing,  al- 
though unknown  to  him  —  of  his  life  and  aims. 
Strange  thoughts  had  crowded  on  her  in  those  long 
hours  since  she  had  parted  with  the  children  —  had 
seen  the  street  whereon  they  lived.  How  could  any 
one  ever  be  glad  again,  she  wondered,  after  seeing 
that,  crush  back  the  dumb  resentment  against 
the  scheme  of  things  ?  Did  there  exist  a  philosophy 
that  had  grounds  for  being,  that  could  reconcile  and 
weigh  with  a  Justice  without  reason  and  beyond 
question?  —  Was  there  a  Mercy  working  —  evolv- 
ing upward  from  the  clod  —  in  the  street  she  had 
seen  to-day? 

She  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  her  forehead 

71 


3%  THE   SANCTUARY  a* 

against  the  window-sill,  and  closed  her  eyes  as  one 
in  pain.  The  October  night  wind  sighed  through  the 
tree  tops  on  the  darkened  lawn  without,  and  she  was 
unconscious  that  it  was  the  only  sound  that  broke 
the  stillness  except  the  dull  heart  throbs  in  her 
breast.  Darker  than  the  moonless-night  skies  was 
the  sea  whereon  the  frail  bark  of  her  faith  was  drift- 
ing, and  every  spar  of  Church  or  Creed  she  reached 
for,  turned  as  rotten  driftwood  to  her  hands. 

At  midnight  she  was  aroused  by  cold,  and  got 
up  slowly,  as  one  awakened  from  a  stupor.  A  late 
cold  moon  was  floating  in  the  sky.  She  stood  watch- 
ing it  as  it  sailed  into  a  bank  of  clouds  and  emerged 
again.  Some  words  of  Hector  Stone's  came  back 
to  her. 

"  She  will  teach  you  if  you  really  want  to  learn  — 
slowly,  and  not  more  than  you  can  bear  at  a  time," 
he  had  said. 

Could  Georgiana  Smith  teach  her,  she  wondered. 
Was  she  strong  enough  to  bear  more  than  the 
glimpse  she  had  had  to-day  and  still  live  in  a  world 
from  which  the  very  foundations  were  crumbling 
to  their  fall  ? 


72 


VII 

THE  next  three  months  passed  for  Blair  Mar- 
tin as  a  panorama  passes  —  as  something1 
separate  and  distinct  and  apart  from  her 
own  life.  If  there  were  ever  moments  when  it  wove 
itself  about  her  own  existence  —  the  luxuries  and 
the  pleasures  that  she  knew  —  she  fought  them 
away,  and  went  dimly,  dully  on  her  way,  observing 
—  learning  from  Georgiana  Smith,  who  in  silent 
pity  watched  her,  and  in  mercy  only  showed  her 
such  sights  as  she  could  bear.  But  later  there  came 
an  hour  —  as  Georgiana  Smith  had  foreseen  — 
when  Blair  Martin  was  no  longer  willing  to  be 
shielded,  and  where  the  elder  woman  would  not 
send  her,  Blair  Martin  went  herself,  unasked.  Once 
she  stayed  at  the  Settlement  House  for  a  week. 
There  lived  none  that  had  a  right  to  question  her 
comings  or  her  goings  but  her  father,  and  her  father 
was  much  too  busy  with  matters  at  the  mills  to  think 
of  questioning  his  daughter  when  she  announced 
one  day  that  she  was  going  to  visit  a  friend  for  a 
week.  It  was  perhaps  Hannah  alone  who  worried 
at  the  strange  new  look  in  Blair  Martin's  face  —  at 
her  long  absences  —  at  the  fatigue  that  bordered  on 
prostration  at  her  returns  —  and  who  with  many 
misgivings  packed  the  steamer  trunk  of  simplest 

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clothes,  and  at  her  mistress'  orders  left  untouched 
the  new  and  unworn  gowns  of  fragile  beauty  that 
had  only  recently  come  from  the  dressmakers'  hands. 

If  Blair  Martin's  face  grew  thinner  in  those  days, 
she  grew  to  learn  that  loss  of  flesh  comes  from 
many  causes  —  not  the  least,  from  hunger.  If  her 
face  was  whiter  and  her  eyes  darker  and  more  sad, 
she  was  instinctively  conscious  of  the  fact  in  other 
faces  —  men's  and  women's  —  and  if  her  laugh 
came  less  often  it  was  because  she  saw  less  to  re- 
joice over  in  those  months  when  she  was  learning  — 
in  those  months  when  she  waited  in  vain  for  a 
glimpse  of  Hector  Stone. 

By  and  by  the  sights,  the  smells,  the  sounds  that 
had  at  first  been  an  agony  to  her,  seemed  to  merge 
into  the  panorama  she  was  watching  —  to  become 
its  color  and  its  life  and  tone.  She  spent  a  month 
in  travel,  in  the  great  cities  of  her  own  coast  and 
inland,  and  she  came  back  to  the  Anchorage  more 
still  and  sad.  Christmas  came  and  went,  and  for 
the  first  time  since  she  was  a  child  herself  she  failed 
to  go  to  the  Children's  Hospital  with  toys,  but  sent 
Brewster  and  Hannah  instead.  Did  not  the  chil- 
dren of  those  loathsome  darkened  places  need  her 
more  than  these?  For  the  first  time  she  failed  to 
head  with  a  liberal  donation  the  subscription  list 
in  the  church  which  she  had  once  attended,  and  of 
which  her  father  was  a  vestryman.  How  had  she 
ever  given  such  sums  for  the  decoration  of  a  church 
when  there  were  countless  homes  which  never  knew 
a  bed  or  chair?  For  the  first  time  since  she  had 

74 


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grown  to  be  a  woman,  her  dressmakers  waited  in 
vain  for  her  orders  for  opera  dresses.  How  could 
she  bring  herself  to  show  her  own  white  throat  and 
neck  when  at  Hull  House  in  Chicago  she  had  looked 
upon  the  back  of  a  Russian  girl  scarred  with  the 
lash  of  the  Cossack  soldiers,  and  in  Milwaukee  she 
had  seen  a  man  walk  in  the  lock-step,  serving  out 
ten  years  because,  when  starving,  he  had  stolen 
bread?  For  the  first  time  she  returned  the  gift  of 
flowers  —  bought  at  a  fabulous  price  —  and  sent 
her  on  the  New  Year  for  the  past  five  years  by  a  man 
she  knew,  a  friend  of  her  father's.  Had  she  not 
learned  how  he  had  amassed  his  millions  on  the 
blood  and  sweat  of  others;  had  she  not  for  ten  al- 
most intolerable  minutes  watched,  unknown  to  him, 
the  men  he  employed  stripped  to  the  waist  before 
the  glaring  furnaces,  watched  them,  enveloped  in 
white  steam  and  paralyzing  heat,  by  the  streams  of 
molten  iron,  scarcely  ceasing  through  the  intermi- 
nable hours;  great  shadowy  forms  of  men  working 
mechanically  beneath  the  awful  strain,  no  time  to 
rest,  no  time  to  pause  even  to  wipe  away  the  sweat 
that  ran  in  great  streams  across  half-blistered  flesh  ? 
Stone  she  never  saw.  Of  his  movements,  of  his 
work  in  the  slums,  she  sometimes  heard  either  from 
Georgiana  Smith  or  some  of  the  other  people  she 
encountered.  It  was  perhaps  only  Georgiana  Smith 
who  even  knew  of  him  as  the  man  of  money.  To 
the  others  he  was  Joe  Blackburn  —  Blackie.  As  she 
walked  to  and  fro  from  one  horror  to  another,  either 
alone  or  with  some  other  worker,  she  used  at  first  to 

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scan  the  faces  of  the  men  as  they  passed  on  their 
way  to  work  or  on  their  return  from  toil.  By  and 
by  she  ceased  to  look  for  him  —  for  he  never  came 
—  but  the  faces  of  the  men  she  watched  became  a 
living  book  to  her,  and  in  those  hurried  glimpses 
she  grew  to  learn  the  lines  of  tragedy  —  of  dark 
crime  and  grim  want  and  terrible  despair. 

But  always,  somewhere,  shielded  from  all  outward 
touch  of  harm,  the  remembrance  of  him  lived  with 
her,  sleeping  or  awake. 


VIII. 

THE  winter  had  set  in  early  and  it  lasted  late. 
Blair  Martin  had  never  known  before  what 
a  cold  winter  meant.  Wrapped  in  her  great 
furs  and  driving  her  own  sleigh,  to  return  to  warmth 
and  luxury,  light  and  food,  winter  had  held  no  ter- 
ror for  her  in  spite  of  her  mother's  blood.  But  for 
the  first  time  —  it  was  the  first  time  in  so  many 
things  —  she  saw  winter  as  it  could  be  —  stripped 
of  its  beauty  —  she  saw  it  as  the  poor  see  it,  as  some- 
thing grim,  foreboding  and  walking  in  the  van  of 
Death.  It  was  then  that  the  helplessness  of  things 
came  over  her.  There  was  so  much  want,  and 
the  money  —  it  would  not  go  everywhere.  She 
grew  then  to  know  at  once  the  power  of  money  and 
its  limitations,  and  she  knew  that  the  answer  to  the 
problem  could  not,  and  never  would  find  its  solution 
even  in  vast  piles  of  divided  wealth. 

Georgiana  Smith  watched  her  —  in  silence  still  — 
knowing  that  words  were  useless  at  this  stage,  and 
knowing,  too,  by  suffering  and  the  experience  of 
many  years,  that  for  Blair  Martin  the  flame  was 
burning  at  too  fierce  a  heat. 

"  She  will  learn  —  as  we  all  do,"  she  thought, 
as  she  sorted  out  a  pile  of  half-worn  clothes  and  laid 
some  infant's  things  aside  along  with  a  blanket  and 

77 


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a  shawl,  "  but  while  she's  learning  —  may  God  help 
her." 

To  Blair  Martin  she  only  said  : 

"  Tom  O'Brien  will  carry  the  food  and  heavier 
things  and  be  grateful  for  the  dime.  The  baby's 
clothes  —  " 

Blair  Martin  interrupted  her. 

"  Let  me  take  those,"  she  said. 

She  trembled  as  she  picked  them  up  and  walked 
through  the  early  morning  streets  with  Tom.  She 
remembered  seeing  yesterday  a  scrub-woman  in  an 
office-building  and  the  marble  floor  over  which  she 
bent  was  wet  with  milk  that  mingled  with  the  dirty 
water.  The  crime  of  it  —  of  the  waiting  starving 
child  at  home  —  dyed  her  cheeks  as  the  maternal 
in  her  cried  out  against  the  shame. 

For  some  time  she  walked  along  in  silence,  which 
Tom,  usually  so  communicative,  was  afraid  to  break. 
She  had  never  gotten  to  the  heart  of  Tom  or  of  any 
of  his  kind  —  she  did  not  know  how  to  appeal  to 
them.  She  was  conscious  of  the  lack  in  herself  and 
sometimes  when  she  could  not  sleep  at  night  for  the 
horrors  that  she  had  seen,  she  would  remember  what 
Hector  Stone  had  said.  Some  day  perhaps  she 
would  learn  this  foreign  language  too,  learn  to 
reach  them  in  reality,  in  some  way  other  than  with 
food  and  clothes  —  perhaps  as  Georgina  Smith 
reached  them  with  a  word,  or,  as  they  had  some- 
times confessed,  Joe  Blackie  had  reached  them  with 
a  smile. 

After  some  little  difficulty  they  found  the  place, 

78 


*ft  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

and  used  as  she  was  by  now  to  the  type  of  so-called 
homes  in  which  these  people  lived,  she  could  not 
remember  having  seen  in  all  her  months  of  work, 
an  entranceway  more  loathsome  and  more  dark. 
The  creaking  stairs  were  so  narrow  that  it  was 
only  with  infinite  patience  and  labor  that  Tom  got 
to  the  top  with  the  bundle  that  he  carried.  The 
smell  of  vermin  and  of  rotted  food  and  of  fifty  peo- 
ple living  where  twenty  would  have  been  too  many, 
overpowered  her  for  an  instant  and  made  her  ill 
and  faint.  Tom  saw  it  and  with  a  ready  sympathy 
laid  down  his  pack  on  the  first  landing  and  begged 
her  to  return.  She  mutely  shook  her  head.  The 
small,  dark,  dirty  doors  which  they  passed  were 
closed  and  all  the  house  was  silent.  She  remem- 
bered it  was  a  Sunday  morning.  Of  late  Sundays 
had  meant  nothing  to  her  except  a  day  whereon  the 
women  who  worked  all  week  in  the  sweatshops 
cleaned  their  homes,  or  the  men  who  toiled  for  six 
days  rested  from  an  exhaustion  that  it  would  have 
taken  twelve  months  to  relieve  instead  of  twelve 
hours.  The  inside  of  a  church  she  had  not  seen  for 
months.  How  could  she  worship  —  What? 

They  reached  the  top  at  last  and  through  the 
stillness  came  a  broken,  feeble  wail.  Tom  laid  down 
his  burden  and  turned  questioningly  to  Blair  Martin. 

"  Please  don't  wait,"  she  said.  "  I  can  manage 
very  well  alone  —  I  would  rather  be  alone.  And 
—  and  I  know  what  it  would  mean  to  you  to  be 
with  your  friends  to-day." 

An  odd  light  swept  into  Tom  O'Brien's  eyes. 

79 


THE   SANCTUARY 


Perhaps  this  strange  woman  with  the  white  face 
and  dark-shadowed  eyes  sometimes  understood. 

She  waited  until  she  heard  him  step  from  the  last 
rickety  stair  and  cross  the  lower  passageway  and 
slam  the  door.  Still  the  feeble  wail  went  on.  She 
glanced  once  at  the  bundle  of  food  and  clothing  at 
her  feet,  at  the  package  in  her  arms,  and  then  she 
knocked  gently  on  the  door.  There  was  no  answer. 
The  wail  of  a  moment  before  had  sunk  to  rest.  She 
knocked  again  and  louder,  and  the  stillness  weighed 
upon  her  until  her  nerves  began  to  quiver  beneath 
the  strain.  Again  she  knocked  and  she  was  an- 
swered by  the  feeble  wail.  She  turned  the  unresist- 
ing knob  and  entered. 

Upon  a  pallet  made  of  filthiest  straw  was 
stretched  the  form  of  what  once  might  have  re- 
sembled a  woman,  distorted  now  by  years  of  crime, 
of  bitter  battling  against  poverty  and  woe  and 
recent  pain.  The  lips  were  drawn  back  from  the 
teeth  in  a  ghastly  grin.  One  lean  hand  was 
stretched  forth  and  touched  a  dirty  bundle  on  the 
floor.  From  the  bundle  came  a  plaintive  cry. 

"  Poor  soul,  she  is  asleep  —  she  needs  it  and  I 
will  let  her  rest  until  the  district  nurse  comes.  She 
said  she  would  be  here  within  an  hour.  The 
baby  —  " 

She  leaned  down  over  the  dirty  bundle  on  the 
floor,  her  hands  trembling  as  she  touched  the  rags. 
It  was  so  little  and  so  helpless.  Had  she  ever  seen 
such  a  helpless  thing  before  ? 

The  wail  ceased  suddenly.     With  one  arm  Blair 

80 


*ft  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Martin  held  the  child  to  her,  warming  its  cold  face 
against  her  bosom.  With  the  other  hand  she  tore 
the  wrappings  from  the  bundle,  looking  around  her 
for  some  sign  of  water.  She  saw  a  little  near  the 
woman  in  an  old  tomato  can. 

She  never  very  clearly  remembered  the  next 
twenty  minutes.  She  gave  up  all  thought  of  wash- 
ing the  child  until  the  district  nurse  should  arrive, 
and  she  wrapped  it  in  a  warm  shawl  and  held  it  to 
her  that  it  might  share  her  human  warmth.  Now 
and  then  it  wailed  feebly.  She  wondered  if  it  were 
hungry  —  everything  seemed  hungry  in  this  under- 
world into  which  she  had  stepped  —  and  she  thought 
of  awakening  the  mother.  The  district  nurse,  when 
she  came,  would  surely  have  them  both  taken  to 
the  hospital.  The  child  went  off  to  sleep  and  Blair 
Martin  crouched  with  it  on  a  low  broken  stool  wait- 
ing for  the  district  nurse,  and  for  the  mother  to 
awake.  By  and  by  the  utter  stillness  of  the  place 
broke  through  her  thoughts  and  outer  conscious- 
ness, and  she  raised  her  eyes  to  where  the  woman 
lay. 

With  a  sudden  cry  she  rose,  and  still  holding  the 
sleeping  baby  close,  she  leaned  over  and  touched  the 
long  thin  hand. 

"  Dead !  "  she  breathed.     "  And  I  never  knew !  " 

After  that  she  remembered  nothing  except  that 
the  room  was  very  cold  and  that  she  must  warm  and 
soothe  the  helpless  new-born  thing  that  lay  within 
her  arms.  She  did  not  even  move  when  some  one 
turned  the  knob  and  entered,  closing  the  door  be- 

8l 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

hind.  By  and  by  she  began  to  wonder  dimly  why 
the  district  nurse,  whom  she  knew,  did  not  speak  to 
her  —  offer  to  do  something.  Then  she  became 
aware  that  it  was  a  man  facing  her.  With  an  effort 
she  swept  away  the  veil  that  had  fallen  over  sight 
and  sound  and  she  looked  up  and  met  Stone's  gray 
eyes  regarding  her. 

Still  crouching  on  the  low  and  broken  stool  with 
that  helpless  bundle  at  her  breast,  she  looked  up  at 
him  —  giving  no  token  of  surprise.  Across  the 
chasm  of  the  months  she  looked  at  him,  and  in  her 
eyes  he  found  no  dimmest  resemblance  to  the  eyes 
that  had  looked  at  him  from  under  the  mimosa  tree. 
These  eyes  to-day  were  dark  with  the  world's  pain, 
deep  with  the  experiences  of  life,  as  sorrowful  and 
brooding  as  the  eyes  of  a  woman  who  had  been  a 
mother  and  lost  her  child,  and  the  most  wonderful 
that  Stone  had  ever  seen. 

Without  comment  she  motioned  to  the  bed,  and 
then  gathering  the  new-born  thing  she  held  closer 
to  her  bosom,  the  eyes  were  lowered  as  Blair  Martin 
bowed  her  head. 


IX. 

TWO  hours  later  Stone  called  for  her  at  the 
dingy  drug  store  a  block  away,  where  he 
had  taken  her  and  bidden  her  wait  for  him. 
She  had  obeyed  him  now  as  she  had  obeyed  him  that 
night  in  August  in  the  garden  at  her  home.  She 
had  neither  questioned  his  wisdom  or  his  judgment 
in  bringing  her  here  until  he  could  adjust  things 
and  see  the  child  in  the  care  of  the  district  nurse 
who  had  arrived  a  few  minutes  later.  Neither  did 
she  question  how  he  had  found  her  or  where  he  had 
come  from,  and  she  had  only  dimly  noticed  that  he 
wore  a  shabby  suit  of  brown  —  such  as  a  mill  hand 
might  wear  for  a  Sunday  best. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  with  the  quick  decision  that  had 
been  one  of  the  secrets  of  his  influence  in  the  upper 
as  well  as  the  lower  strata  of  the  lives  he  lived.  And 
she  never  dreamed  to  pause  or  question. 

Once  out  in  the  streets  she  followed  where  he 
led  mechanically.  In  the  more  crowded  districts 
through  which  they  passed  signs  of  active  life 
greeted  them.  Into  less  frequented  ways  he  led  her 
with  an  evident  knowledge  that  at  any  other  time 
would  have  surprised  her.  They  crossed  a  small, 
dingy  square,  dignified  by  the  name  of  park  by  the 
city  officials  —  one  of  those  few  small  breathing 

83 


THE    SANCTUARY 


spaces  where  the  poor  congregate.  It  was  deserted 
at  this  early  hour  and  was  too  cold  for  even  the 
men  and  women  who  breathed  foul  air  all  the  week 
to  take  advantage  of  at  present.  The  snow  that  had 
fallen  the  day  before  was  trampled  and  blackened 
where  a  horde  of  children  had  played.  Across  the 
little  square  she  saw  an  automobile  waiting.  He  led 
her  to  it  and  helped  her  in.  The  man  who  had  been 
guarding  the  car  cranked  up  and  then  came  back 
to  where  Stone  stood  and  helped  him  into  a  great 
fur  coat  that  completely  covered  the  suit  of  shabby 
brown. 

"  That  is  all,  Wilson.  You  may  go  now,  and 
have  my  things  ready  by  noon  —  the  gray  suit  and 
the  dark  tie.  I  am  dining  out." 

The  man  touched  his  cap  respectfully  and  crossed 
the  square.  He  had  been  too  well  trained  to  evince 
the  surprise  he  felt  at  seeing  his  master  bring  a  lady 
—  shabbily  enough  dressed,  but  certainly  a  lady  — 
from  those  haunts  that  Wilson  could  not  have  been 
hired  to  go  near  except  to  serve  Stone.  The  lady, 
he  thought,  in  spite  of  her  thick  veil,  looked  re- 
markably like  the  daughter  of  the  multimillionaire, 
Andrew  Martin. 

"  It's  tempting  Providence  to  meddle  with  states 
of  life  you  weren't  born  into,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self, boarding  the  first  car.  He  was  conscious  of 
being  glad  as  block  after  block  carried  him  further 
away  from  the  crowded  sections  into  the  upper  parts 
of  the  city  that  were  better  known  to  him.  He  was 
conscious,  too,  that  some  pretty  shop  girls  opposite 


THE   SANCTUARY 


were  regarding  his  overcoat  —  a  last  year  one  of 
Stone's  —  approvingly. 

With  a  tact  that  was  partly  inborn  and  partly  the 
result  of  long  experience  in  dealing  with  living  men 
and  women,  Stone  did  not  break  the  silence  at  first, 
and  when  he  did  it  was  to  tell  her  in  a  few  brief 
words  the  things  she  would  want  to  know. 

"  The  doctor  says  with  proper  care  the  child 
should  live.  It  is  to  go  to  the  good  sisters.  The 
woman  —  "he  had  paused  and  looked  down  the 
street  through  which  they  were  passing,  thought- 
fully, —  "  the  woman  is  to  have  a  decent  burial." 

Still  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

He  guided  the  car  with  a  knowledge  born  of  long 
acquaintance  from  the  roughly  paved  streets  of  the 
poorer  section  to  the  smoother  asphalt  of  the  broad 
main  avenue.  Here  palatial  homes  looked  at  one 
another  across  a  well-kept  park  with  big  shade  trees 
that  ran  through  its  center  from  end  to  end. 

Once  he  saw  her  lift  her  eyes  to  the  big  houses 
standing  with  closed  blinds  in  the  hush  of  the  early 
morning,  and  she  shivered  suddenly  as  she  turned 
away. 

"You  are  cold?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  understand,  still  —  put  this  on." 

He  slowed  down  a  little  and  reached  under  the 
seat  and  pulled  out  a  big  fur  coat  and  gave  it  to  her. 
Mechanically  she  took  it,  conscious  of  a  new  warmth 
creeping  through  her,  at  his  care  of  her.  He  helped 
her  into  it. 

85 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  There,  that  is  better.  I  should  have  remem- 
bered." 

They  were  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city  now,  and 
stretches  of  country  road  with  wide  fields,  white 
with  untrodden  snow,  lay  on  either  side.  The 
branches  of  the  bare  trees  overhead  were  weighted 
down  with  the  same  white  burden,  and  the  morning 
sun  lay  bright  and  warm  over  all.  The  roads  were 
almost  deserted  and  as  they  pulsed  along  in  the  big 
car  they  did  not  notice  the  few  they  did  pass  who 
looked  curiously  at  them,  —  people  to  whom  storm 
and  fair  weather  were  the  same. 

Still  she  had  not  spoken. 

"  I  met  Tom  O'Brien  on  the  street  —  Tom  and 
I  are  great  friends  —  "  Stone  smiled,  "  and  I  asked 
him  what  he  was  about.  He  told  me  that  some  un- 
known waif  had  called  at  daybreak  at  the  Settle- 
men  House  for  help  for  the  woman.  I  wonder  how 
the  woman  got  hold  of  the  waif  —  and  what^became 
of  him." 

She  shook  her  head  again. 

"  Just  one  of  the  mysteries  of  the  slums,"  he  went 
on  in  a  low  voice.  "  The  floor  on  which  she  lived 
was  deserted.  I  understand  that  the  family  was 
evicted  yesterday." 

She  clasped  and  unclasped  her  gloved  hands,  with 
a  gesture  of  passionate  pain. 

"  And  then  Tom  told  me  he  had  left  you,  that 
you  insisted  on  his  going  off  for  his  holiday.  I  came 
because  —  because  I  knew  the  neighborhood  and  I 
thought  you  might  need  my  —  some  help." 

86 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  Thank  you." 

The  words  were  breathed  rather  than  spoken. 
Stone  smiled  strangely. 

"  Would  not  any  —  friend  have  done  as  much  ?  " 
he  asked.  A  light  that  had  been  flickering  through 
her  eyes  suddenly  died. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said.  "  What  were  you  doing  at 
that  hour  down  there  ?  " 

He  hesitated. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  and  her  eyes  com- 
pelled an  answer. 

"  I  had  been  up  all  night  with  a  man  I  knew  —  a 
mill  hand  who  —  "  he  broke  off  and  turned  his  face 
away. 

"Yes?" 

"  Who  was  scalded  yesterday  by  an  explosion 
where  he  worked." 

She  shuddered. 

"  There,  do  not  grieve  so.  When  I  left  his  pain 
was  over." 

"  His  family  —  he  left  a  family?  " 

"  A  wife  and  four  children.  They  are  to  go  back 
to  Italy." 

Stone  slowed  down  a  little,  and  the  car,  like  a 
horse  that  knows  its  owner's  touch,  seemed  to  run 
with  little  guidance  from  the  steering  wheel.  When 
he  spoke  again  she  started.  She  had  never  heard  his 
voice  so  stern. 

"  They  call  America  the  melting  pot  of  nations 
and  she  is  unworthy  of  the  name.  They  come  to 
her  with  their  wounds  —  the  crushed  and  the  down- 

87 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

trodden  of  the  earth  —  as  hurt  children  run  to  the 
shelter  of  a  mother's  arms,  and  instead  of  healing 
them,  America  fastens  on  them  as  a  vampire  on  its 
prey,  and  drop  by  drop  their  blood  adds  to  the 
wealth  we  know.  She  holds  out  her  arms  to'  them 
and  bids  them  come  to  her,  and  she  boasts  of  a  free- 
dom that  they  only  know  in  name.  She  does  not 
have  czars  and  kings,  but  she  has  political  bosses 
who  run  her  cities  and  her  states.  She  boasts  that 
she  has  no  Siberias  and  no  fortresses  like  Saint 
Peter's  and  Saint  Paul's,  but  in  some  of  the  modern 
penitentiaries  where  she  fancies  she  is  curing  men 
of  crime,  the  inmates  labor  all  day,  and  at  night  are 
sent  to  rest  in  vermin-infested  cells  —  oh,  I  know 
—  and  she  has  one  law  for  them  and  one  law  for 
the  men  of  money  who  betray  her  trust.  They 
come  to  her  and  she  puts  the  women  —  the  future 
mothers  of  the  future  race  —  ankle-deep  in  blood  in 
Western  slaughter  houses,  and  the  little  children 
in  their  feeble  strength  to  bear  the  burdens  for  the 
rich.  She  gathers  them  all  in  and  she  stands  by  — 
this  America  that  I  love  in  spite  of  all,  that  might 
be  as  great  as  she  is  mighty  —  and  she  guards  the 
melting  pot,  but  in  the  process  of  refining  she  lets 
the  gold  go  with  the  dross." 

He  stopped.  The  words  had  fallen  quick  and 
throbbing  on  the  silence  of  the  early  day. 

By  and  by  she  spoke.  Her  voice  was  low  and 
strained. 

"  How  can  we  live  —  how  can  we  be  glad  — 
when  such  things  exist?" 


THE   SANCTUARY 


He  turned  to  her  with  his  slow  smile.  There 
was  a  light  in  his  eyes,  as  though  they  saw  the  solu- 
tion to  the  soul's  problems,  that  she  did  not  under- 
stand. 

"  You  will  learn  to  be  glad  for  life,  Miss  Mar- 
tin, and  for  joy  and  even  —  wealth,"  he  said. 

"  I  can  never  enjoy  all  that  wealth  brings  again," 
she  answered.  In  her  eyes  was  the  dawning  of  an 
age-long  pain.  "  I  shall  always  see  before  me  — 
the  things  I  have  seen  !  " 

"  You  will  never  feel  quite  the  same  again  per- 
haps —  you  will  never  want  to,"  he  said. 

"  I  shall  never  want  to,"  she  told  him,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  she  saw  before  her  a  vast  procession 
crossing  the  white  fields  of  snow  —  an  army  of  men 
and  women,  starving  and  in  rags,  and  of  little 
children  dropping  by  the  way,  and  as  they  passed 
her  with  averted  heads,  they  all  paid  tribute  to  a 
vast  pile  of  gold  lying  at  her  feet. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  she  murmured,  and  in  the 
stillness  of  the  early  day  her  voice  fell  upon  his  ear 
—  an  anguished  prayer. 

"  Listen,"  he  said,  the  strange  light  of  revelation 
still  in  his  eyes,  "  and  I  will  tell  you  what  first 
helped  me." 

For  a  moment  he  looked  down  in  silence  at  the 
steering  wheel.  He  had  studied  men  and  women 
as  some  study  books,  and  he  knew  that  for  her  the 
awakening  had  come.  Then  he  began  to  speak, 
but  his  voice  was  no  longer  stern  —  accusing,  and 
she  was  conscious  that  there  was  a  quality  in  it  that 


THE   SANCTUARY 


gave  her  benumbed  senses  added  strength.  Years 
afterward,  she  recalled  his  every  word. 

"  I  felt  as  you  do  —  we  all  do  at  first,"  he  said. 
"  None  of  us  —  and  you  would  be  surprised,  Miss 
Martin,  could  you  know  the  number  of  rich  men  and 
women  who  have  given  up  their  lives  for  those  of 
the  underworld  —  are  ever  quite  the  same  again, 
and  as  I  have  said,  we  do  not  want  to  be.  It  takes 
most  of  us  some  time  to  get  over  the  shock  of  things 
—  to  readjust  our  preconceived  ideas  of  a  deity  and 
life.  There  are  a  few  who  never  do  —  brave  souls 
that  go  down  to  the  grave  with  the  crushing  weight 
of  others'  woes  upon  them.  Then  there  are  some 
who  patiently  submit  and  do  all  they  can,  and  oth- 
ers, —  strong  rebellious  spirits  —  that  fight  every 
inch  of  the  way,  and  life  finds  them  unsatisfied  and 
death  rebellious  still."  He  paused  for  a  moment  as 
though  weighing  his  words.  "  I  have  learned  to  be 
grateful  for  the  experiences.  I  have  learned  to  be 
thankful  for  the  wealth  and  all  of  comfort  and 
peace  and  beauty  that  it  brings  to  others,  and  —  my- 
self." He  hesitated  and  looked  out  across  the  wide, 
white  stretches  of  the  fields. 

"  Oddly  enough,  it  was  a  Catholic  priest  in  France 
who  first  showed  me  the  way.  He  is  still  living. 
I  hope  some  day  that  you  two  may  meet.  His  phi- 
losophy and  wisdom  and  understanding  are  as  pro- 
found as  his  love  for  humanity  is  deep  and  true. 
He  will  never  win  me  to  his  Church,  but  he  won  me 
back  —  to  God." 

"  Is  there  a  God?  "  she  questioned  with  white  lips. 

90 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

"  Just  now,  to  you,  there  is  no  God,  Miss  Mar- 
tin," he  said  gravely,  and  his  voice  was  very  low, 
"  and  to-morrow  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow 
still,  you  may  feel  He  does  not  exist.  But  some 
day  you  will  learn  a  philosophy,  to  you,  new  — 
although  it  is  a  philosophy  as  old  as  men  —  and 
you  will  know  Him  as  I  know  Him  —  as  Pierre 
Lamore  in  France  knows  Him  —  as  the  true  Mo- 
hammedan, the  true  Hindu,  the  true  Christian 
knows  Him  —  with  a  knowledge  separate  and  dis- 
tinct from  time  and  sphere  and  space  and  creed  — 
you  will  know  him  as  the  breath  of  All." 

An  hour  later  the  big  car  slowed  down  as  he 
turned  into  the  courtyard  of  the  Anchorage,  and 
when  it  stopped  he  helped  Blair  Martin  out. 

The  courtyard  was  deserted  except  for  Ajax,  who 
lay  asleep  in  the  warm  winter  sun.  Stone  held  out 
his  hand  in  parting.  She  put  her  own  in  it  and 
looked  up  at  him. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  simply,  "  for  all  that  you 
have  done  to  help  me.  I  fancy  some  day  I  shall  be 
even  more  grateful  —  when  I  can  understand  better. 
Won't  you  come  in?  My  father  will  be  back 
from  —  '  she  broke  off  for  a  moment,  "  from 
church  in  a  little  while." 

'  Thank  you,  I  cannot  stop  to-day,"  he  said,  and 
she  wondered  what  made  his  voice  so  strange. 

A  sigh  escaped  her  of  which  she  was  not  aware. 

;<  You  —  you  will  come  some  other  time  —  per- 
haps? "  she  asked. 

91 


THE  SANCTUARY 


"  Perhaps,"  he  answered,  and  to  himself  he  said, 
"  When  I  come  again  I  will  tell  her  the  truth." 

He  got  into  his  car  and  she  stood  watching  him 
as  he  drove  out  of  the  courtyard  and  down  the 
carriageway.  One  thought  —  strong  and  insistent 
—  beat  on  her  senses  —  the  thought  of  the  mill 
hand,  scalded,  who  had  died. 

She  stood  still,  her  hands  clasped  tightly  together. 

"  Spare  him  —  spare  him,"  she  breathed,  speak- 
ing to  she  knew  not  What. 


X. 

THE  winter  that  had  set  in  early  gave  way  to 
an  early  spring.  Each  day  in  February 
found  the  earth  a  little  warmer  than  the  pre- 
ceding one,  and  only  an  occasional  light  flurry  of 
snow  appeared  to  suggest  the  bitter  coldness  of  the 
earlier  months.  Blair  Martin  found  herself  watch- 
ing for  the  first  traces  of  the  budding  green  with  an 
eagerness  of  which  she  was  only  half  aware.  Since 
that  ride  with  Hector  Stone  a  few  weeks  back,  life 
and  its  problems  had  assumed  a  healthier  tone.  He 
had  not  paid  another  visit  to  the  Anchorage,  and 
she  had  given  up  looking  for  him  there.  The  in- 
tense expectation  of  the  late  summer  and  fall,  in 
which  every  sound  upon  the  carriage  drive  had  sent 
the  warm  blood  flushing  to  her  face,  the  dull  resent- 
ment that  had  followed,  and  the  still  duller  sense 
of  pain,  had  gone.  She  found  many  excuses  for 
him  —  his  labor  with  the  men  —  his  unwillingness 
to  partake  further  of  hospitality  from  a  host  who 
so  radically  differed  from  him  in  his  views.  She 
never  admitted  to  her  own  heart  that  he  did  not 
come  because  he  did  not  wish  to  see  her.  Of  late 
they  had  met  occasionally  at  the  Settlement  House 
on  Sundays.  They  rarely  met  alone,  and  personali- 
ties, as  by  tacit  consent,  both  avoided,  but  in  those 

93 


THE   SANCTUARY 


hours  life  took  on  new  meaning  for  her,  and  his 
work  became  her  own  as  it  never  had  done  before  — 
not  as  a  panorama  to  be  watched  with  varying  de- 
grees of  interest  and  pity  and  of  horror,  but  as  a 
part  of  her  —  and  him. 

"  May  I  call  next  Sunday  afternoon?  "  he  asked 
her  as  he  was  helping  her  into  her  roadster  ;  "  there 
is  —  something  that  I  feel  you  ought  to  know  — 
why  I  have  not  called  —  oftener." 

His  broken  speech,  unlike  his  usual  decision,  con- 
fused her,  and  her  low  assent  was  hardly  audible. 

How  the  week  passed  she  did  not  know.  She  did 
not  see  him  in  the  interval  and  the  days  dragged 
as  with  a  leaden  weight. 

When  Sunday  came  she  hardly  touched  her  din- 
ner, and  after  her  father  had  gone  to  the  big  library 
for  his  usual  holiday  smoke  and  nap,  she  slipped 
on  a  warm  loose  cloak  and  went  out  into  the 
grounds.  Once  she  looked  in  the  direction  of  the 
garden  and  she  shook  her  head. 

"  I  have  waited  so  long,"  she  thought,  "  I  will 
wait  just  a  little  longer,"  and  she  wondered  at  the 
cold  fear  that  crept  into  her  heart. 

Now  and  then  she  watched  the  carriage  road  for 
the  first  glimpse  of  his  car  as  it  rose  on  the  crest  of 
the  incline,  but  the  carriage  road  lay  in  its  long 
winding  length  with  no  sound  or  sign  of  life  upon  it. 

He  came  upon  her  unawares  from  the  foot  path 
that  ran  to  the  left  of  the  broad  way.  He  was  in 
stout  walking  boots  and  puttee  leggings  and  a  cordu- 
roy Norfolk  jacket  and  cap,  and  had  not  her  heart- 

94 


THE   SANCTUARY 


beats  told  her  it  was  he,  she  would  not  at  first  have 
known  him. 

She  stood  quite  still  under  the  bare  trees  waiting 
for  him  as  he  came  up  cap  in  hand.  On  his  face 
rested  the  grave  smile  she  had  grown  to  think  a 
part  of  him,  and  his  look  was  all  for  her. 

"Are  you  wondering  who  the  stranger  is?"  he 
asked  lightly.  "  Joe  Blackie  sometimes  spends  his 
Sundays  so  and  gives  the  car  a  rest.  It's  back  to  the 
fundamental  things  of  life  —  isn't  it?  But  the  walk- 
ing does  me  good." 

"  You  have  walked  all  the  way  from  town  ?  " 

"  That  is  not  so  far  when  one  has  been  used  to 
Alpine  climbing." 

"  True.     I  have  never  climbed  the  Alps." 

"  I  hope  you  may  some  day.  One  gets  an  idea 
of  the  breadth  of  life  from  those  dim  heights." 

"  I  shall  remember  that.  I  had  thought  of  going 
abroad  this  summer.  Oh,  yes,  I  have  seen  Paris  — 
and  I  was  three  years  in  Brussels  at  school  when  a 
girl  —  and  I  have  '  done  '  London  on  a  tram,  and 
all  that  part  of  it  —  and  once  I  went  to  Lucerne." 
She  paused  a  moment  and  looked  off  across  the 
grounds.  "  I  fancy  I  was  too  young  then  to  know 
all  that  beauty  meant.  I  was  very  young  —  it  was 
before  I  had  suffered  any  —  before  my  mother 
died." 

"  You  will  see  Lucerne  with  different  eyes  when 
you  go  again,"  he  said. 

"  Will  you  not  come  into  the  house  and  rest  ?  " 
she  asked  after  a  pause. 

95 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  Thank  you." 

"  I  will  ring  for  a  cup  of  tea  or  —  would  you 
rather  have  black  coffee?" 

"  Coffee,  please." 

"  When  my  father  awakes  he  will  doubtless  take 
you  into  the  library  and  offer  you  something  else," 
she  smiled. 

"  He  knows  I  am  coming?  " 

She  was  grateful  for  the  shadow  of  her  little 
tea-room  that  hid  the  color  that  sprang  to  her  face. 

"  I  did  not  tell  my  father." 

"  I  am  glad.  I  did  not  come  to  see  him  to-day, 
Miss  Martin,"  the  light  of  greeting  had  died  out  of 
his  face,  and  for  a  moment  it  looked  old. 

She  threw  off  her  loose  wrap  and  drew  up  a  big 
chair  to  the  cheerful  blaze  upon  the  hearth. 

"  What  were  you  doing  when  I  came  on  you  so 
unexpectedly?"  he  asked,  moving  restlessly  about 
the  room. 

"  Looking  to  see  if  there  were  any  traces  of  the 
early  violets  —  foolish,  wasn't  it  ?  —  and  —  watch- 
ing for  you." 

She  leaned  nearer  the  fire  and  began  to  play  with 
it  gently  with  a  poker. 

He  stopped  by  the  mantel  and  leaned  one  elbow 
upon  it. 

"  Was  I  not  on  time  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

She  looked  up  with  a  smile,  the  glow  of  the  fire- 
light upon  her  face. 

"  I  am  not  sure.    I  had  no  watch,  but  —  " 

She  broke  off  in  confusion. 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

"  But?  "    She  could  not  disregard  his  voice. 

"  The  time  seemed  long.  It  is  a  long  while  since 
you  have  been  to  the  Anchorage." 

"  A  very  long  while,"  he  said  slowly. 

He  did  not  speak  again,  and  a  sudden  tremor 
seized  her. 

"  Will  you  press  that  bell,  please  ?  There,  yes, 
that  one,  thank  you."  And  when  Brewster  ap- 
peared she  ordered  black  coffee  in  an  odd  strained 
voice. 

"  The  grass  shows  signs  of  awakening,"  he  said 
from  the  window,  "  even  if  the  violets  are  still 
asleep." 

She  rose  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  window 
and  stood  by  him  looking  out. 

"  I  never  appreciated  what  grass  might  mean," 
she  said  gently,  "  until  one  day  last  fall  I  brought  a 
small  child  out  here  and  showed  him  the  grounds. 
He  knelt  down  near  the  grass  and  patted  it  softly 
with  his  hands,  and  when  I  told  him  to  go  and  run 
on  it,  he  asked  if  it  would  hurt  it.  It  seems  in- 
credible, but  it  is  quite  true." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,"  he  answered,  "  only  those 
doubt  —  who  have  not  seen." 

"  I  shall  never  doubt  any  of  those  things  again," 
she  answered ;  "  anything  any  one  might  tell  me  of 
those  barren  lives  stripped  of  all  beauty." 

"  I  believe  it  is  for  that  that  I  have  learned  to 
prize  beauty  more,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  great  softener 
and  a  great  educator,  and  I  do  not  despise  it  as 
some  of  the  rich  men  do  who  have  gone  into  the 

97 


THE   SANCTUARY 


underworld.  We  must  have  ideals  for  them  to 
strive  for  if  we  would  help  them  permanently  —  we 
must  have  ideals  to  come  back  to  when  the  tragedy 
and  sordidness  of  our  day's  work  is  over,  else  we 
descend  lower  than  their  low  level,  and  forego  the 
aspirations  to  which  we  have  been  born.  It  is  be- 
cause of  this  that  I  am  Joe  Blackie  through  the  day, 
and  at  other  times  dress  well  and  ride  in  my  own 
car  as  Hector  Stone.  Do  you  think  you  under- 
stand ?  I  have  wanted  you  to  understand,"  he  said, 
still  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"  I  think  I  do,"  she  answered.  "  I  shall  think  of 
that  when  I  pass  the  —  others,  walking  in  their  rags, 
as  I  ride  by  in  my  car  —  wrapped  in  my  furs." 

"  It  will  help  to  adjust  life  for  you,"  he  said. 
"  We  are  all  born  in  the  environment  to  which  we 
are  best  fitted  —  with  capabilities  that  could  so  well 
develop  in  no  other  soil.  It  is  the  one  true  philos- 
ophy of  the  ages  —  whether  you  read  it  in  the  books 
of  India  or  in  the  parables  of  the  Christ." 

"  I  wish  I  understood  such  things  better.  I  would 
be  happier,  I  think." 

"  I  sent  you  to  Georgiana  Smith  to  know  and  see 
life  as  it  really  is  for  some  of  us,"  he  said,  "  but  I 
fancy  you  will  have  to  meet  Pierre  Lamore  some 
day  if  you  want  even  dimly  to  realize  what  the 
Eternal  means." 

"  Tell  me  something  of  him." 

"  I  will,"  he  answered.  "  Come  and  sit  by  the 
fire  with  me.  Pierre  Lamore  is  indelibly  associated 
with  my  life  —  with  a  life  of  which  you  know  noth- 


THE   SANCTUARY 


ing.  It  is  because  I  thought  you  ought  to  know 
that  I  have  come  to  tell  you  something  of  that  life 
to-day." 

He  pulled  out  the  big  armchair  for  her  as  Brew- 
ster  entered  with  the  coffee  on  a  silver  tray,  which 
he  placed  on  a  small  table  by  Miss  Martin's  chair. 

After  he  was  gone  Stone  took  a  chair  opposite 
and  watched  her  in  silence  while  she  poured  the 
fragrant  amber  drink  from  a  Persian  coffee  pot  into 
cups  of  fabulous  price.  The  rich  simplicity  of  the 
room  and  of  the  service  seemed  a  part  of  her  and  of 
her  pale  gray  gown.  The  late  sunlight  streaming 
through  the  western  window  fell  on  her  hands  and 
lit  up  for  an  instant  the  sapphire  ring  she  wore  —  a 
gift  from  her  dead  mother.  It  was  her  only  per- 
sonal adornment  except  her  long  string  of  white 
pearls. 

He  took  the  cup  she  handed  him  in  silence. 

"  I  have  a  fancy,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "  that 
some  day  you  and  Pierre  Lamore  will  meet.  He 
stands  as  a  type  of  a  great  faith  —  irrespective  of 
church  or  creed  —  and  the  symbol  of  a  great  wis- 
dom that  at  present  the  world  is  too  blind  to  fathom 
or  to  comprehend." 

She  listened,  the  coffee  untasted  by  her,  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap. 

"  In  his  veins  is  the  blood  of  the  nobility  of 
France  —  of  Russia  ;  he  has  the  manners  of  a  court- 
ier, and  he  is  versed  in  the  philosophies  of  the 
world,  but  he  wears  the  dress  of  a  Catholic  priest 
and  he  lives  on  an  island  —  it  is  called  the  Island 

99 


THE   SANCTUARY 


of  the  Angels  —  in  the  Mediterranean,  in  a  cottage 
with  a  sanded  floor,  with  a  middle-aged  house- 
keeper and  a  young  boy,  named  Anthony,  whose 
face  is  like  one  of  Botticelli's  choristers.  He  goes 
about  in  a  rickety  old  chaise  drawn  by  a  horse  he 
overfeeds  from  kindness,  and  he  preaches  at  a  little 
village  church  to  a  couple  of  hundred  peasants  and 
their  children,  and  he  visits  their  sick  and  christens 
their  babies  in  the  name  of  Christ,  and  buries  their 
dead  and  weeps  with  them,  and  in  all  things  shares 
their  lives.  And  for  all  this  —  or  because  of  this  — 
he  has  refused  a  bishop's  see  and  a  cardinal's  hat" 

Stone  put  his  empty  cup  of  coffee  down.  The 
slight  stimulant  seemed  to  give  him  new  strength. 
He  was  conscious  that  Blair  Martin's  eyes  had  not 
left  his  face. 

"  How  did  you  ever  run  across  him?  " 

"  Years  ago  when  I  was  a  midshipman,"  he  an- 
swered in  a  low  voice. 

"  An  Annapolis  man  ?     I  did  not  know  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  all  so  long  ago,  Miss  Martin,  I  hardly 
know  myself.  It  was  on  one  of  the  cadet  cruises 
to  Marseilles.  I  got  a  short  leave  and  went  on  a 
tour  by  myself,  and  I  came  on  the  Island  of  the 
Angels  and  met  —  "  he  broke  off.  It  seemed  to  him 
he  could  not  go  on. 

"  Oh,  Pierre  Lamore  —  how  interesting  !  What 
made  you  give  up  the  service?  " 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  as  a  man  looks  who 
has  been  granted  a  brief  respite.  He  was  silent  for 
an  imperceptible  instant. 

IOO 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

"  Do  you  think  I  was  made  for  the  service?  " 

A  smile  of  infinite  beauty  crept  across  her  face. 
He  could  see  it  in  the  failing  light. 

"  I  am  not  sure  how  you  would  have  taken  orders 
from  your  inferior  superior  officers.  Yet  —  you 
were  born  to  be  a  leader  of  men." 

"  It  was  a  big  question  to  me,  Miss  Martin,  that 
decision,  and  I  was  very  young.  I  —  I  did  not  al- 
together decide  it  for  myself.  There  was  some  one 
else  to  be  considered,  and  —  just  then  —  a  year  be- 
fore graduation  —  the  money  came  from  my  child- 
less uncle.  Even  then  I  was  conscious  that  it 
brought  with  it  its  trusts  and  responsibilities.  I 
graduated  and  then  —  resigned  —  but  I  have  al- 
ways loved  the  sea." 

"  Tell  me  more  about  Pierre  Lamore  and  the 
Island  of  the  Angels." 

"  What  more  is  there  to  tell  that  some  day  you 
will  not  see  for  yourself?  There  is  a  wonderful 
chateau  on  a  high  bluff  at  one  end  of  the  island, 
overlooking  the  water,  and  not  far  from  it  is  a 
memorial  church  —  built  to  the  memory  of  a  child, 
where  every  night  they  hang  a  beacon  to  light  the 
travelers  on  the  sea.  And  down  in  the  valley  with 
the  vineyards  Pierre  Lamore  lives  and  labors." 

"  Some  day  I  must  go  there." 

"  Yes  —  some  day." 

After  that  he  fell  into  a  silence  and  by  and  by  he 
stooped  down  and  picked  a  fresh  log  from  the  wood 
basket  on  the  hearth  and  laid  it  on  the  big  brass 
andirons.  They  watched  it,  as  the  shadows  behind 

IOI 


THE   SANCTUARY 


them  began  to  creep  into  the  room,  until  it  caught 
and  commenced  to  burn. 

"  One  could  say  a  good  deal  more  about  Pierre 
Lamore  and  the  Island  of  the  Angels,  but  what  is 
the  use?  Some  day  you  will  see  for  yourself.  It 
is  growing  late  and  there  is  something  else  I  came 
to  tell  you." 

His  voice  was  more  earnest  than  she  had  ever 
heard  it.  Into  her  heart  again  unbidden  stole  that 
faint  cold  fear. 

"  It  was  while  I  was  on  that  cruise  to  Marseilles 
—  that  I  met  a  girl  —  "  he  broke  off  and  rose  sud- 
denly and  stood  by  the  mantel  looking  down  into  the 
fire. 

"Yes?"  she  said. 

"  That  I  thought  I  loved." 

"  Yes  ?  "  she  said  again. 

"  That  the  next  year  —  after  I  had  been  gradu- 
ated and  had  resigned  —  I  returned  and  —  mar- 
ried." 

"  She  is  living?  "  Her  voice  was  as  quiet  as  the 
soft  wind  that  played  through  the  bare  branches  of 
the  mimosa  tree  outside  the  window. 

"  Yes." 

She  did  not  speak  again  although  he  waited. 

"  We  have  not  lived  together  for  seven  years," 
he  said,  after  what  seemed  a  year  of  silence  broken 
only  by  the  crumbling  of  a  log  upon  the  hearth.  "  I 
cannot  tell  you  all  the  details  to-day  —  perhaps  some 
day  —  some  day  I  hope  I  may  be  free  to  do  so. 
It  may  be  that  until  then  you  will  trust  me  as 

I  O2 


THE   SANCTUARY 


one  friend  trusts  another  ?  For  now  —  this  is 
enough." 

"  It  is  enough,"  she  said,  looking  into  the  fire, 
"  and  trust  —  I  will  always  trust  you." 

She  waited  until  she  heard  the  front  door  close 
on  him  and  his  step  die  away  along  the  gravel  foot 
path.  Then  in  the  dusk  she  slid  from  her  chair  to 
the  floor  in  front  of  the  hearth,  and  with  wide  eyes 
dumb  with  pain,  watched  the  log  he  had  placed 
there  burn  to  ashes. 

The  room  was  very  still,  but  there  was  an  odd 
bursting  sensation  in  her  head,  that  ached  and  ached. 
She  had  felt  it  days  before,  and  again  that  morning, 
but  had  put  it  from  her  by  the  thought  of  his  com- 
ing. He  had  come  and  —  gone,  and  the  agony  had 
returned,  fiercer  than  before.  All  life  was  gone, 
it  seemed  to  her,  leaving  just  this  dull  agony  in- 
stead. She  had  looked  for  violets  as  she  had  waited 
for  him.  Would  the  violets  ever  bloom  again,  she 
wondered.  She  had  waited  for  him,  her  heart  burn- 
ing at  a  white  heat  —  she  had  found  that  while  the 
white  heat  glowed  it  made  and  left  its  ashes. 

"  But  I  will  always  trust  you,"  she  said  again,  as 
the  last  log  broke  and  she  sat  crouching  in  the  dark. 


103 


XL 

IT  was  the  next  day  that  the  accident  at  mill 
fifteen  occurred.  A  detailed  account  of  it,  with 
startling  headlines,  appeared  in  a  dozen  extras 
two  hours  after  the  boilers  had  exploded  and  the 
maimed  and  dying  had  been  carried  from  the 
wrecked  building  where  the  huge  belts,  suddenly 
freed,  vied  with  the  harsh  grinding  cogs  and  wheels 
in  bringing  death  or  injury  to  the  helpless  men. 

Blair  Martin  heard  the  extras  called  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  streets  as  she  stepped  into  her 
roadster  and  took  her  seat  by  Willis,  the  chauffeur, 
after  an  afternoon  of  shopping.  She  was  suddenly 
arrested  by  the  words  the  boys  were  shrieking. 

"  A-l-1  about  the  big  explosion !  Extray!  One  of 
Andrew  Martin's  mills  —  mill  fifteen  —  blown  up ! 
Extray!  Extray!" 

She  hailed  a  boy  in  passing,  and  not  waiting  for 
the  change,  stepped  into  the  car  again. 

"  Home,"  she  said  briefly  to  Willis.  The  paper 
for  a  moment  lay  folded  as  the  boy  had  given  it  to 
her  in  her  nerveless  hand. 

After  a  while  she  unfolded  the  paper  and  com- 
menced to  read.  Instinctively  she  looked  for  the 
list  of  dead  and  injured.  At  the  foot  of  the  list  of 
injured  she  read  the  name,  Joe  Blackburn. 

104 


**  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

The  old  pulsing  pain  she  had  felt  in  her  head  for 
days  still  went  on  in  its  uninterrupted  way,  but 
otherwise  she  was  not  conscious  of  an  unusual 
tremor  or  a  sigh.  It  seemed  to  her  she  had  known 
it  would  come,  and  she  was  not  surprised. 

By  and  by  when  they  had  left  the  more  crowded 
thoroughfares,  the  noises  of  which  strangely  con- 
fused her  aching  head,  she  went  back  and  read  the 
account  of  the  accident  through.  It  was  all  there  — 
in  its  cruel  and  glaring  details  —  even  the  edito- 
rial's scathing  denouncement  of  her  father  and  the 
state  inspectors.  But  none  of  it  seemed  to  touch 
her  inner  consciousness  except  the  brief  account  of 
one  foreman,  by  name  Joe  Blackburn  (generally 
called  Blackie)  and  of  his  injuries.  He  was  one  of 
the  few  they  had  been  able  to  move  any  distance, 
and  he  was  now  at  Saint  Vincent's  Hospital  in  the 
east  end. 

After  she  had  finished  it  all,  she  carefully  re- 
folded the  paper  and  laid  it  in  her  lap  without  com- 
ment of  any  kind.  The  action  was  unconscious, 
but  Willis,  who  had  seen  the  glaring  headlines  and 
guessed  something  of  the  truth,  drove  the  car  with 
unusual  care  over  the  rough  stretches  on  the  home- 
ward road. 

Once  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Anchorage  -she  de- 
scended from  the  automobile  mechanically  and  made 
her  way  to  the  library.  The  paper  was  still  in  her 
hand. 

The  library  was  empty  and  she  sat  down  in  a  big 
chair  to  wait  and  think.  Thinking  seemed  difficult. 

105 


THE   SANCTUARY 


She  supposed  it  was  this  strange  ache  in  her  head 
that  kept  the  thinking  back.  After  all,  what  was 
there  to  think  of  except  of  Joe  Blackie  ?  She  pulled 
off  her  gloves  slowly  and  carefully  smoothed  the 
fingers  out.  How  still  the  room  was  and  how 
warm!  She  rose  and  went  over  to  one  of  the  big 
windows  and  tried  to  open  it.  Her  hands  were 
oddly  weak.  She  tried  again  and  the  window 
yielded,  and  she  stood  there  by  it  breathing  in  the 
February  air.  It  helped  the  strange  aching  in  her 
head  and  she  was  conscious  that  her  thoughts  were 
clearer  and  more  collected.  After  all,  there  were 
other  things  to  think  of  besides  Joe  Blackie,  if  one 
were  strong  enough  to  bear  them.  The  engineer 
had  been  killed,  and  the  paper  said  he  left  a  wife  and 
new-born  child.  The  assistant  engineer  had  been 
scalded  —  horribly  scalded,  the  paper  had  said  — 
and  the  doctor  gave  no  hope.  Two  other  men 
would  die.  Another  had  lost  an  arm  —  a  working 
man  maimed  for  life.  Several  had  received  minor 
injuries,  and  Joe  Blackburn  had  been  badly  cut  about 
the  head  and  neck.  And  all  because  the  State 
inspector  had  passed  shaky  boilers  and  machinery 
innocent  of  safety  devices.  Who  was  responsible? 
She  stopped  thinking  here,  but  the  horrible  ache 
went  on,  and  by  and  by  the  thoughts  forced  them- 
selves back  upon  her  consciousness.  Who  was  re- 
sponsible? Why,  Jenkins,  the  manager,  of  course 
—  Jenkins  and  —  her  father.  Her  father  !  And  he 
had  done  this  thing!  Was  it  possible  that  the  pa- 
pers and  his  workmen  and  —  Joe  Blackie  knew  her 

1  06 


THE   SANCTUARY 


father  better  than  she  did?  Had  she  ever  known 
the  real  Andrew  Martin  at  all  ?  Was  his  blood  her 
own? 

She  closed  the  window  suddenly,  shivering  as 
with  a  chill,  and  went  back  to  the  chair  to  wait. 
She  did  not  even  try  to  fancy  what  his  homecoming 
was  to  be.  She  looked  about  the  room.  She  had 
taken  such  pride  in  its  fashioning  —  in  its  heavy 
wainscoting,  and  few  fine  paintings  that  blended  so 
well  with  the  carved  wood  and  the  massive  furni- 
ture. He  had  left  it  all  to  her,  as  he  had  left  every 
detail  of  the  home,  and  he  had  never  questioned  the 
expense  or  her  taste  in  choosing.  How  blind  she 
had  been  —  how  the  money  had  slipped  through 
her  fingers.  She  wondered  if  the  big  chair  in  which 
she  sat  would  have  paid  for  a  safety  device  for  the 
machinery  on  the  third  floor.  It  had  cost  a  great 
deal  of  money,  she  remembered. 

By  and  by  she  grew  tired  of  thinking  and  she 
leaned  her  head  back  against  the  big  chair  and  fell 
into  a  fitful  doze.  She  awakened  to  find  that  the 
early  February  dusk  had  fallen.  For  a  moment  she 
sat  without  moving,  looking  at  the  dark  wainscoted 
walls  and  the  big  dim  pictures  showing  forth  from 
their  gold  frames.  The  odd  throbbing  in  her  head 
had  increased,  and  then  came  —  memory. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  low  cry  and  groped 
her  way  out  of  the  room,  upstairs. 

Her  father  did  not  return  that  night  nor  was  he 
there  when  she  came  downstairs  to  breakfast.  Her 

107 


THE   SANCTUARY 


eyes  were  heavy  and  it  seemed  to  her  she  walked  on 
air.  She  could  not  touch  her  meal. 

Afterwards  she  ordered  out  her  roadster,  which 
she  drove  herself.  She  never  remembered  how  she 
found  Saint  Vincent's,  nor  could  she  very  distinctly 
remember  the  Sister  in  charge  who  met  her  there 
and  to  whom  she  stated  her  errand. 

"  My  name  is  Miss  Martin,"  she  said,  "I  am  — 
I  am  Andrew  Martin's  daughter.  I  have  come  to 
inquire  about  the  injured  men  brought  here  yester- 
day —  especially  about  one  by  the  name  of  Joe 
Blackburn.  May  I  see  him  ?  " 

The  Sister  in  charge  hesitated. 

"  There  have  been  many  inquiries  for  him  from 
the  other  men,"  she  said,  "  but  no  one  of  his  own 
has  been  here  since  he  was  brought  in  injured.  It 
is  against  the  rules  to  allow  the  ward  patients  to 
see  other  than  their  own  people  out  of  visiting  hours, 
but  —  "  she  broke  off,  "  you  know  him?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Blair  Martin.  "  Will  you  take  me 
to  him?" 

The  Sister  in  charge  touched  the  rosary  that 
hung  from  her  belt.  She  was  old  in  the  service  of 
suffering.  She  had  grown  to  know  that  there  was 
even  greater  suffering  than  that  which  Saint  Vin- 
cent's walls  sheltered. 

She  spoke  slowly. 

"  Come  with  me." 

She  led  her  to  the  elevator  and  on  the  second 
floor  motioned  the  boy  to  stop.  They  got  out  to- 
gether —  the  woman  of  the  world  and  the  woman 

1  08 


THE   SANCTUARY 


of  the  church  —  and  together  they  walked  the 
length  of  a  long  hall. 

At  the  main  door  of  the  men's  ward  she  stopped. 

"  When  he  was  brought  in  yesterday  he  was  un- 
conscious from  loss  of  blood.  In  going  over  his 
clothes  to  find  some  relative's  address,  we  found 
considerable  money.  Later,  he  may  want  a  private 
room,  but  I  fancy  not  if  he  is  a  mill  hand.  I  must 
caution  you  not  to  startle  him  —  when  one's  sight 
is  threatened  —  " 

"  His  eyes  are  injured  ?  " 

"  Not  permanently,  we  hope,  but  the  wound  in  his 
head  came  very  near  to  blinding  him  for  life  —  " 
The  Sister  in  charge  crossed  herself.  "  Sister  Sim- 
eon will  take  you  to  him."  She  motioned  to  the 
ward  Sister  as  she  spoke. 

His  bed  was  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  room, 
partly  screened  to  keep  out  the  strong  light.  As 
the  footsteps  came  nearer  and  paused  at  the  foot  of 
his  bed,  he  stirred  a  little  and  put  up  one  hand  feebly 
to  his  bandaged  head. 

Sister  Simeon  moved  on  to  another  bed. 

Blair  Martin  came  to  the  side  and  stood  looking 
down  at  him.  She  hardly  saw  the  chair  placed  there 
for  her  use,  nor  was  she  conscious  that  some  of  the 
other  men,  who  had  seen  her  enter,  were  regarding 
her  curiously. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  how  you  are,"  she  said,  and 
as  gentle  as  was  her  voice,  and  as  low,  he  started. 

"'You!    You  have  come  alone ?" 

"  I  am  quite  alone,"  she  answered. 

109 


"  How  did  you  know  —  I  fancied  only  Wilson 
knew,"  he  said.  "  After  all,  your  father  —  all  the 
world  —  can  know  now." 

"  I  read  about  it  in  the  papers  last  night." 

He  hesitated. 

"  Your  father  —  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  my  father.  He  had  not  come 
home  when  I  left  this  morning." 

"Ah!" 

She  sat  down  in  the  chair  by  the  bed.  She  felt 
suddenly  ill  and  faint. 

"  I  knew  it  would  come,"  he  said  after  a  pause, 
"  it  has  been  threatening  for  months." 

"  And  you  exposed  yourself !  " 

"Would  you  have  had  me  run  away?  "  he  ques- 
tioned. "  I  could  not  leave  the  other  men  to  face 
it  alone." 

"  Did  they  know  the  danger,  too  ?  "  She  seemed 
to  be  speaking  impersonally. 

"  Of  course !    Every  one  —  every  one  knew." 

She  began  to  draw  a  pattern  with  the  tip  of  her 
gloved  hand  upon  the  coverlet. 

"  Did  —  my  father  know  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer. 

"How  long  since  he  has  known?"  she  asked, 
after  a  little.  Her  voice  was  very  calm. 

"  I  warned  him  last  summer.  It  was  for  that  I 
—  I  first  visited  the  Anchorage." 

"Thank  you." 

She  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  few  moments, 
and  in  silence  he  waited. 

no 


THE   SANCTUARY 


Then  she  gathered  strength  to  ask  him  what  had 
been  trembling  on  her  lips  since  she  first  saw  him. 

"  Are  you  much  hurt  ?  " 

A  ghost  of  a  smile  played  about  his  mouth  for  a 
moment. 

"  That  depends.  They  tell  me  my  eyes  will  be 
all  right  in  a  few  weeks  if  I  use  care,  and  that  the 
wounds  will  heal,  but  —  "  he  broke  off. 

"  But  what?  "  she  breathed. 

He  stretched  out  one  hand  impulsively  over  the 
spread,  then  drew  it  back  hastily. 

"  Would  you  —  care,"  he  asked  very  slowly,  "  if 
I  should  tell  you  that  I  shall  be  scarred  for  life?  " 

Somewhere  in  the  ward  she  heard  other  voices. 
They  seemed  far  away.  The  odor  of  ether  from 
somewhere  near  crept  over  to  her.  She  tried  to 
speak  —  to  control  her  voice  —  and  failed. 

"  I  could  not  bear  it,"  she  said  brokenly. 

"  You  will  learn  to  bear  it  —  as  I  shall,"  he  said 
in  a  low  voice. 

By  and  by  Sister  Simeon  came  up  and  gave  Stone 
some  stimulant  from  a  covered  glass  standing  on 
the  table  by  his  bed.  Blair  Martin  watched  them 
both  in  silence.  She  could  see  the  hot  flush  of 
shame  overspreading  Stone's  partly  covered  face, 
as  the  Sister  raised  him  in  his  weakness  as  though 
he  were  a  little  child.  Something  in  that  flush,  as  in 
the  Sister's  act  of  mercy,  touched  her  with  an  un- 
utterable pain  and  she  turned  her  face  away. 

After  the  nurse  had  gone  she  spoke  to  him. 

"  Is  there  —  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

III 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  Then  he  put  out  one 
hand  and  began  to  grope  for  something  on  the  table. 

She  rose. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked.  "  What  is  it  that  I  can 
get  for  you  ?  " 

"  Are  there  not  some  letters  on  the  table  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  and  then,  becoming  aware 
that  he  could  not  see  the  motion,  she  answered : 

"  I  do  not  see  any  there.    Shall  I  ask  the  Sister?  " 

"  Oh,  I  remember  now.  I  put  them  under  my 
pillow  when  Wilson  left  the  package  this  morning 
directed  to  Joe  Blackburn.  Poor  Wilson  —  he  need 
not  be  afraid  of  betraying  me  now.  I  can't  keep 
the  thing  secret  any  longer.  One  of  the  workmen 
who  reached  me  first  found  a  letter  on  me  in  my 
own  name  and  some  visiting  cards  I  had  forgotten. 
After  all  I  don't  suppose  it  matters  much  except  for 
all  the  newspaper  talk  and  fuss,  and  I'll  miss  most 
of  that." 

"  You  do  not  care  who  knows  ?  "  She  was  think- 
ing of  her  father. 

"  Why  should  I,  when  there  is  so  much  else  worth 
while?  I've  tried  to  make  it  good  to  the  men." 

Then  after  a  little: 

"  There  is  something  you  might  do  for  me  —  if 
you  would  —  "  he  broke  off. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  —  oh,  so  glad,"  she  said  eagerly. 

He  groped  under  his  pillow  until  he  found  the 
bundle  of  letters. 

"  Will  you  read  the  postmarks  to  me,  and  any 
return  addresses  in  the  corners?  I  have  never  felt 

112 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

such  need  of  a  secretary  before.  Will  you  play  sec- 
retary to  me  now?  " 

She  took  the  bundle  from  his  hand  and  undid  it. 

"  There  are  four,"  she  said. 

"Yes?" 

"  This  one  seems  to  be  from  a  tailor  —  it  is  post- 
marked the  city  and  bears  the  name  of  Smith  and 
Brown." 

"  Unmistakable,"  he  said,  with  a  slight  laugh,  "  a 
receipted  bill.  It  can  be  laid  to  one  side.  Wilson 
will  file  it  for  me.  The  next,  please?  " 

"  Postmarked  Philadelphia.  Undoubtedly  a  wed- 
ding invitation.  Shall  I  open  it  ?  " 

"  Do  not  trouble  about  it.    There  is  another?  " 

"  Two  more.  This  one  is  an  advertisement  notice 
from  a  haberdasher.  It  bears  the  city  postmark  and 
is  unsealed." 

"  Tear  it  up,  please." 

She  did  so  and  carefully  piled  the  scraps  on  the 
table  by  his  bed. 

"The  other  one?" 

She  sat  down  again  and  picked  up  the  remaining 
letter.  She  turned  it  over  once  or  twice  to  be  sure 
of  the  postmark. 

"  This  seems  rather  personal,"  she  said  doubt- 
fully, "  and  I  can't  quite  make  out  the  postmark. 
It  bears  a  Canadian  stamp  —  " 

"  A  Canadian  stamp  —  from  Montreal  ?  "  with  a 
sudden  strength  he  sat  up  and  reached  for  the  let- 
ter. "  Let  me  have  it,"  he  said,  almost  harshly.  She 
gave  it  to  him  and  her  hand  trembled  as  she  did  so, 

IJ3 


*»  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

and  she  knew  not  why.  For  a  minute  he  lay  hold- 
ing it  tensely  in  his  hand,  and  once  it  seemed  as 
though  he  would  have  torn  the  bandages  from  his 
head  and  eyes. 

"  I  cannot  see  —  "  The  words  were  fraught  with 
a  pain  she  sensed,  but  could  not  understand. 

"  Let  it  wait  until  —  your  eyes  can  bear  to  be 
used,"  she  suggested,  "  or  until  some  friend  or  — 
Wilson  comes." 

"  I  cannot.  I  have  no  friends  near  enough  for 
that.  It  may  be  weeks  before  I  can  use  my  eyes. 
Wilson  —  I  could  not  bear  for  Wilson  to  know  the 
details  and  —  I  dare  not  wait." 

"  Could  I  read  it  for  you  ?  It  would  be  as  though 
I  had  never  seen  it." 

He  bit  his  lips  for  a  moment. 

"  If  I  could  be  quite  sure  of  that,"  he  said, 
"  quite  sure  —  " 

"  Try  me." 

"  I  will,"  he  answered.  "  Draw  your  chair  closer 
that  no  one  else  may  hear.  Tell  me  first,  is  the  en- 
velope marked  in  one  corner?" 

"  Yes.  It  requests  that  if  not  delivered  in  five 
days  it  be  returned  to  The  Hotel  des  Invalides, 
Montreal." 

"  Go  on,"  he  said  briefly,  and  he  turned  his  face 
away. 

She  opened  the  envelope  carefully  and  undid  the 
closely  written  pages.  They  were  in  a  woman's 
firm,  clear  hand.  It  was  dated  four  days  back  and 
read: 

TT4. 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  MY  DEAR  MONSIEUR  STONE  :  While  I  am  aware 
that  only  recently  I  sent  you  the  monthly  bulletin 
regarding  your  wife's  condition  —  "  The  pages 
suddenly  fluttered  to  the  floor,  and  Stone,  arrested 
by  the  faint  noise  and  the  ceasing  of  Blair  Martin's 
voice,  asked  hastily: 

"What  is  it?" 

"  It  is  all  right,"  her  low  voice  came  back,  "  I 
carelessly  let  the  sheets  fall.  If  you  will  wait  a 
moment  I  will  soon  have  them  so  I  can  begin  again." 

He  waited  in  a  tense  silence.  Then  her  voice 
went  on  : 

"  regarding  your  wife's  condition,  but  such  un- 
usual developments  have  taken  place  of  late  that  I 
thought  you  should  be  notified.  The  case,  as  Mon- 
sieur knows,  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  we  have 
ever  cared  for,  for  even  in  the  hours  of  Madame's 
greatest  mental  darkness  there  have  been  rays  of 
pure  reason  shown.  Our  own  doctor  here  has  never 
agreed  with  the  specialists  Monsieur,  had  sent  from 
Toronto  and  New  York,  who  pronounced  the  case 
one  of  hopeless  insanity,  and  it  would  seem  that 
our  own  good  doctor  may  be  right  after  all,  and 
Monsieur  meet  with  the  reward  his  faithful  care  of 
Madame  merits. 

"A  fortnight  ago  Madame's  condition  was  not 
encouraging  —  there  being  symptoms  of  a  return 
of  the  lung  cough  she  had  so  severely  when  you 
first  brought  her  to  us.  These  symptoms  have  not 
abated  as  much  as  we  would  like,  although  Madame 


THE   SANCTUARY 


is  somewhat  better  in  her  cough  to-day,  but  her  lucid 
moments  have  returned  more  and  more  often.  To- 
day she  refused  to  play  with  the  new  toys  you  sent 
her  last  month,  and  once  she  spoke  of  you  and  asked 
when  you  were  coming  to  take  her  home.  She  also 
attended  chapel  this  morning  and  her  special  nurse, 
who  never  leaves  her,  tells  me  she  heard  her  quite 
distinctly  pray  for  the  soul  of  the  boy  you  lost.  I 
left  her  only  a  few  minutes  ago  by  the  window  in 
her  sitting-room  overlooking  our  beautiful  river, 
and  she  spoke  of  it  and  of  the  sunset,  as  Monsieur 
himself  might  have  done. 

"  Monsieur  may  be  assured  that  he  will  be  kept 
posted  as  to  the  slightest  change.  When  I  spoke  to 
our  doctor  about  it  to-day,  he  smiled  a  little.  '  You 
may  tell  him  from  me,'  he  said,  '  that  I  think  the 
waiting  is  nearly  over.' 

"  I  can  fancy  what  this  hope  will  mean  to  Mon- 
sieur, whom  we  have  never  forgotten  as  the  husband 
of  Madame,  or  as  the  liberal  contributor  to  our  new 
chapel  when  it  was  built. 

"  I  commend  you  and  Madame  to  the  mercy  of 
God. 

"  MARY  FRANCES,  Mother  Superior." 

In  silence  she  folded  the  letter  and  placed  it  in  the 
envelope,  and  then  very  gently  laid  it  in  his  hand. 
His  hand  lay  limp  upon  the  coverlet  and  she  took 
his  fingers  and  folded  them  over  the  letter.  Still  he 
did  not  move. 

After  a  while  she  rose. 

116 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  I  am  afraid  you  are  tired.  Is  there  anything 
more  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

He  turned  his  head  wearily  on  the  pillow. 

"  Nothing  more,  thank  you,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Does  —  the  letter   require  an   answer?" 

"  No  answer,  thank  you,  Miss  Martin." 

She  looked  down  at  him  then  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that  he  was  miles  away.  Her  own  voice  when 
she  spoke  again  sounded  far  off  and  indistinct. 

"  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye."  Further  off  still  came  his  voice  to 
her,  and  it  was  as  the  voice  of  one  speaking  from  a 
great  abyss. 


117 


XII. 

AT  midnight  Blair  Martin  awoke  from  a  fitful 
doze  and  rung  the  electric  bell  by  her  bed 
for  Hannah.  Hannah,  whose  rest  was  rarely 
disturbed  by  her  mistress,  but  who  always  slept 
with  one  eye  open  in  case  of  need,  hurried  down  in 
anxious  wonder.  From  the  bed  Miss  Martin  looked 
at  her  with  burning  cheeks  and  shining  eyes. 

"  Call  the  doctor,  Hannah,  I  am  ill." 

They  were  the  last  conscious  words  she  said  in 
weeks.  An  hour  later,  when  the  doctor  hurriedly 
arrived,  he  found  her  raving  in  wild  delirium.  Un- 
til daybreak,  he  and  Hannah  sat  with  her.  Then 
the  trained  nurse  arrived.  At  five  in  the  morning, 
Lorimer,  the  doctor,  descended  the  broad  steps.  His 
face  was  grave  and  troubled.  He  had  known  Blair 
Martin  since  she  was  a  child  —  her  mother  before 
her  —  and  he  had  watched  with  an  almost  personal 
interest  the  rise  of  Andrew  Martin  and  his  fortune. 
As  he  reached  the  lower  step,  Martin  came  out  of 
the  library  door,  and  for  a  moment  the  two  men 
faced  each  other  in  silence. 

"How  is  she?" 

"  Very  ill  —  typhoid  without  a  doubt.  She  must 
have  had  it  in  its  walking  form  for  a  week." 

"  She  —  will    pull    through  ?  "      Even    Lorimer 

118 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  ^ 

scarcely  recognized  the  voice  or  the  face  of  the 
man  before  him.  His  clothes  were  awry,  his  hair 
disheveled,  his  eyes  red  from  sleeplessness  and  the 
horrors  they  had  lately  seen,  his  face  ashen  with  the 
weight  of  a  new  fear. 

Lorimer  drew  on  his  coat  slowly.  He  did  not 
meet  Andrew  Martin's  eyes. 

"  She  is  very  ill,"  he  repeated.  "  I  have  tele- 
phoned for  Curtis,  the  great  typhoid  specialist.  He 
is  to  meet  me  here  at  nine.  Also  another  nurse. 
If  she  can  be  pulled  through  —  "  He  broke  off. 

"May  I  see  her?" 

Lorimer  hesitated.  How  could  he  repeat  to  the 
father  before  him  the  wild  ravings  he  had  listened 
to  through  the  night  —  ravings  of  the  explosion ; 
of  sufferings  personally  witnessed ;  of  sights  he  had 
never  even  dreamed  she  knew  to  exist  —  of  a  crin- 
ging fear  and  loathing  lest  her  father  come  to  her? 

"  She  would  not  know  you,"  he  said  after  a  little ; 
"  it  would  only  be  painful  to  you,  and  you  can  do 
nothing —  " 

Martin  interrupted  him. 

"  You  mean  —  " 

"  I  mean,"  said  Lorimer  slowly,  and  with  more 
of  sympathy  in  his  voice  than  he  was  aware,  "  that 
from  her  delirium  I  gather  she  has  not  seen  you 
since  the  —  the  trouble  at  the  mill.  Is  it  so  ?  " 

Martin  nodded  his  head  in  assent. 

"Ah  —  I  thought  as  much.  Better  leave  her  to 
—  time." 

Andrew  Martin  drew  a  deep  breath  and  turned 

119 


THE   SANCTUARY 


back  to  the  library  door,  and  in  silence  Lorimer 
crossed  the  great  hall  to  the  courtyard.  When  his 
hand  was  on  the  latch  he  was  arrested  by  Mar- 
tin's voice,  and  in  that  moment  he  barely  recog- 
nized it. 

"  Wait,  Lorimer,  there  is  just  one  thing.  There 
is  no  expense  to  be  spared  —  you  Understand  that  ? 
What  money  can  get  for  her  —  "  he  broke  off  and 
paused  a  moment. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Lorimer.  "  Wealth  can  do 
much  —  sometimes." 

The  Scotchman  looked  at  him  still  with  those  red 
sleepless  eyes  that  had  already  witnessed  horrors  — 
still  with  his  ashen  face  of  fear. 

"  Lorimer,  two  days  ago  I  fancied  money  could 
buy  almost  anything.  I  know  now  it  can  never  buy 
—  peace." 

Then  he  went  into  the  library  and  closed  the  door. 

Inside  he  sat  down  by  his  big  flat  table  desk  where 
he  had  sat  all  night,  awake  and  alone.  His  money 
had  never  brought  him  the  son  and  the  heir  to  his 
name  that  he  had  wanted  years  ago  ;  it  had  not  kept 
Mary  Blair  with  him.  It  could  not  purchase  for  him 
now  the  easy  self-satisfaction  of  these  last  years.  It 
could  never  wipe  out  the  horrors  he  had  seen  at  the 
mill  and  in  the  vicinity,  and  the  horrors  of  the  last 
two  days  and  nights.  It  could  not  lift  one  ounce  of 
the  crushing  dread  that  beset  him  now.  After  he 
had  gone  —  after  he  had  exhausted  all  the  luxuries 
and  the  ease  and  the  complacency  that  wealth  had 
brought,  and  had  passed  on  to  —  What,  what  would 

1  2O 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  ^          m 

the  vast  pile  be  worth  to  him  if  Blair  and  her  chil- 
dren's children  did  not  exist?  After  all,  what  had 
he  been  striving  for  all  these  years  if  not  for  Blair 
and  her  unborn  children  ?  He  himself  had  been  too 
busy  really  to  enjoy  more  than  the  personal  comforts 
his  vast  wealth  had  brought.  He  had  never  had 
time  for  travel,  or  for  art  or  for  the  finer  things  that 
seemed  to  make  life  worth  while  to  others  and  to  — 
Blair.  And  Blair  —  would  she  ever  speak  to  him 
again  except  through  necessity  —  would  she  ever 
want  to  touch  his  hand  —  it  was  blood-stained,  he 
remembered  suddenly  —  or  to  look  into  his  eyes  or 
caress  him  as  of  old  ?  There  had  always  been  depths 
in  Blair's  nature  he  had  never  fathomed,  as  there 
had  been  depths  in  her  mother's  life  he  had  not 
touched  —  he  had  always  known  that,  and  yet  now 
the  knowledge  came  to  him  as  the  swift  stroke  of 
a  knife  might  cut  —  suddenly  and  deep.  His  had 
been  the  lesser  nature.  To-day  he  knew  that.  Was 
it  because  he  had  been  too  busy  watching  the  vast 
pile  roll  up  on  itself  to  try  to  understand  ?  Could  all 
the  luxuries  and  the  gold  and  the  power  he  had 
striven  for  as  a  youth  wipe  out  one  remembrance  of 
the  horrors  he  had  seen,  or  grant  him  happiness  if 
Blair  were  to  die  without  forgiving  him?  Would 
she,  with  her  ideals  of  life  —  forgive  —  all  this? 

At  nine  Lorimer  returned  with  the  specialist, 
and  later  there  came  another  nurse.  He  heard 
Brewster  admit  them,  and  listened  as  they  made 
their  way  upstairs.  After  what  seemed  to  him  hours 
he  heard  them  descending  and  he  went  out  into  the 

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hall  to  meet  them,  as  earlier  in  the  day  he  had  gone 
out  to  meet  Lorimer. 

The  specialist  stopped  on  his  way  to  his  car, 
waiting  at  the  door  to  answer  the  unspoken  question 
in  the  Scotchman's  eyes. 

"  You  are  naturally  anxious,  Mr.  Martin,  for 
news.  It  is  really  too  early  to  tell  you  anything 
definite.  There  are  symptoms  I  do  not  like  —  a 
brain  complication  —  evidently  the  result  of  some 
great  shock  and  —  I  might  say  personal  loss,  al- 
though of  the  latter  her  delirium  tells  little.  Your 
daughter  —  has  had  no  sudden  bereavement  —  per- 
haps an  unfortunate  love  affair?" 

The  Scotchman  swallowed  hard.  The  face  of 
Hector  Stone  rose  up  before  him.  After  all,  how 
little,  next  to  nothing,  he  knew  about  the  heart  of 
Blair.  All  these  years  he  had  been  too  busy  making 
money  for  her  lavish  gowns  — 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  think  not,"  he  said,  and  he  knew  that  he  was 
ashamed,  and  that  he  had  told  a  lie. 

"  Curious  —  curious,"  said  the  specialist,  slowly, 
and  looked  towards  Lorimer,  but  Lorimer's  face  was 
turned  away. 

"  Lorimer  will  keep  me  posted.  I  will  come  out 
again  later.  We'll  hope  for  the  best,  Mr.  Martin. 
May  I  extend  my  sympathy?  This  on  top  of  the 
mill  trouble  —  He  broke  off.  Something  in  the 
Scotchman's  eyes  forbade.  With  a  bow  he  picked 
up  his  hat,  and  followed  by  Lorimer,  he  passed  out 
of  the  front  door  and  entered  his  car. 

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THE   SANCTUARY 


The  morning  wore  away.  At  one,  Brewster 
brought  him  his  luncheon,  but  was  curtly  dismissed. 
He  walked  the  length  of  the  great  room  again  and 
again,  pausing  now  and  then  to  look  out  of  the  long 
casement  windows  to  the  February  scene  without. 
Strange  thoughts  came  to  him  as  he  walked  and 
looked.  The  bare,  gaunt  trees  assumed  human 
shapes  of  worn  and  ill-fed  men.  He  could  not  for- 
get the  homes  that  he  had  seen  or  the  horrors  they 
contained.  And  he  had  always  boasted  of  his  mills 
—  of  Jenkins'  management.  He  had  boasted  of 
it  to  Hector  Stone.  Stone!  He  wondered  what 
Stone  would  say  when  they  met  —  he  knew  what 
Stone  would  think,  what  Stone  had  thought  of  him, 
now.  It  might  be  that  Stone  had  known  him  better 
than  he  had  known  himself.  A  sudden  fierce  desire 
to  meet  Stone  face  to  face  came  over  him,  and  as 
for  years  all  desires  had  meant  their  gratification 
to  Andrew  Martin,  he  hurried  over  to  the  desk  and 
rang  up  Stone's  chambers.  After  some  trouble  he 
made  a  connection  with  a  man  who  said  he  was 
Mr.  Stone's  valet.  No;  Mr.  Stone  was  not  in. 
Mr.  Stone  was  away.  Thwarted,  he  put  the  re- 
ceiver down,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room  again.  At  three,  Brewster  announced  his 
lawyers. 

He  met  them  as  he  had  met  the  doctors  —  stand- 
ing. Mechanically  he  rang  the  bedl,  and  when 
Brewster  answered  it,  ordered  drinks.  He  did  not 
touch  his  own. 

The  lawyers  were  old   friends.     Like  Lorimer, 

123 


THE   SANCTUARY 


through  long  years  they  had  watched  the  Scotchman 
rise  and  amass  his  vast  fortune.  The  eldest  of  them 
had  almost  kept  pace  with  his  client  He  was  known 
as  the  greatest  corporation  lawyer  of  the  state. 

"  I  understand  your  daughter  was  suddenly  taken 
ill  last  night  ?  Accept  my  sympathy.  I  have  always 
admired  Miss  Martin,  although  I  have  for  years 
had  a  fancy  she  never  cared  for  me,"  the  older  man 
smiled  a  little  grimly.  He  was  thinking  of  his  New 
Year's  gift  of  roses,  returned. 

"  My  daughter  is  ill  —  so  ill  she  may  not  live," 
said  Andrew  Martin.  He  spoke  with  a  certain  dig- 
nity foreign  to  him.  Then,  as  neither  man  an- 
swered, he  rested  his  hand  on  the  table  and  bent  a 
little  forward  toward  the  older  man. 

"Like  you?  I  fancy  not,  Hadley."  He  spoke 
very  distinctly  and  very  slowly. 

Hadley's  expression  of  self-satisfaction  fell  from 
him  like  a  mask.  He  put  down  his  brandy  and  soda 
quickly,  and  half  rose  from  his  chair. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  saying  anything  against  you  I  don't 
say  against  myself,"  said  Andrew  Martin,  sinking 
into  his  chair,  and  leaning  across  the  desk  with  a 
contemptuous  smile  on  his  face.  "  My  daughter  is 
of  finer  clay,  Hadley,  than  you  or  —  I." 

Hadley  moistened  his  lips  with  the  brandy  and 
soda  and  waited.  The  younger  man  stared. 

"  We've  been  playing  a  poor  game,  Hadley.  I 
never  knew  just  how  poor  a  game  until  —  two  days 
ago.  You've  come  to  see  about  a  settlement  for 
damages  —  how  little  we  can  buy  the  injured  men 

124 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

off  with  —  how  little  we  can  pay  the  women  and 
the  children  of  the  men  who  —  died.  Oh,  yes,  I 
know  —  it's  all  in  my  own  interest.  You're  doing 
the  work  I  hire  you  to  do  —  "  he  was  aware  that 
Hadley  winced,  and  he  was  filled  with  a  fierce 
pleasure,  the  first  he  had  known  in  hours,  —  "  but 
I'm  simply  not  going  to  make  any  so-called  settle- 
ment. I've  never  estimated  before  what  a  working 
man's  arm  might  mean  to  him,  or  the  money  value 
of  a  woman's  heart,  and  the  worth  of  children's 
empty  stomachs.  Here  are  some  cheques  I've  drawn 
up  for  the  different  families.  I've  —  I've  investi- 
gated each  case  myself,  but  I'm  new  at  the  business. 
I've  added  fifty  per  cent  to  what  seemed  to  me  just 
—  just,  mind  you,  Hadley,  not  business-like  or  ex- 
pedient. If  it  doesn't  suit,  you  can  come  back  with 
the  cheques  and  I'll  add  to  the  amount." 

He  stopped  and  walked  over  to  the  fireplace,  and 
stood  there  looking  at  the  smouldering  logs  on  the 
andirons,  his  back  to  the  room,  his  hands  folded  be- 
hind him,  his  head  bent  a  little  forward.  Hadley's 
voice  reached  him  quite  distinctly  where  he  stood, 
and  neither  the  words  nor  the  sneer  surprised  him. 

"  Turning  parson,  eh  ?  Suppose  the  men  and 
the  women  refuse  the  cheques  —  refuse  to  let  you 
add  to  them  —  and  take  their  cases  to  the  courts  ? 
Buying  them  off  is  one  thing  —  and  not  such  a  very 
hard  thing  when  men  have  what  we  have,  Martin, 
but  the  public  these  days  is  acquiring  a  pernicious 
habit  of  demanding  investigations  and  punishment 
of  responsible  parties." 

125 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

"  I'm  prepared  for  a  fine,  Hadley." 

Hadley  leaned  back  in  his  big  chair,  crossed  his 
legs  comfortably,  and  carefully  measured  his  finger 
tips  together  and  puckered  up  his  lips.  He  was 
conscious  that  he  was  giving  the  great  millionaire 
a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour.  He  thoughtfully  reflected 
that  it  was  wholesome  treatment.  He  also  made 
another  mental  tabulation  on  an  event  that  had 
rankled  for  many  weeks  —  the  return  of  his  roses 
by  the  woman  lying  ill  upstairs.  One  could  not 
fight  a  woman,  but  one  might  reach  her  through  the 
man  of  the  family. 

"  One  cannot  always  get  off  with  fines,"  he  said 
at  last,  significantly.  He  wished  the  Scotchman 
would  turn  that  he  might  see  His  face.  The  quiet 
voice  of  the  Scotchman  when  he  spoke,  disturbed 
him.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  had  not  bagged  his 
game. 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,  too,"  said  Andrew  Mar- 
tin, still  looking  into  the  fire.  "  Some  men,  when 
they  have  been  rudely  awakened  to  a  wrong,  and 
learned  a  principle  of  life,  would  be  willing-  —  to 
give  themselves  up.  I  am  not  man  enough  for  that. 
All  my  life  I  have  fought  for  what  seemed  to  me 
worth  while.  I  shall  continue  to  fight  —  as  I  think 
best.  Dishonor  is  one  thing,  Hadley  —  and  I  have 
thought  to-day  that  the  world's  standard  of  honor 
is  not  over  high  —  and  disgrace  to  one's  only  child 
is  another." 

"  I  fancy  Miss  Martin,  with  her  high  ideals,  would 
hardly  be  able  to  distinguish  between  the  two,"  said 

126 


THE   SANCTUARY 


Hadley.  His  voice  was  studiously  polite  and  solicit- 
ous. 

The  Scotchman  wheeled  around  suddenly  and 
faced  him.  A  flush  not  wholly  from  the  fire  crept 
over  his  face. 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Hadley.  One  can  often 
read  in  others  the  qualities  lacking  in  himself." 

"  Thank  you.    We  were  talking  about  —  " 

"  The  possibility  of  a  prosecution.  Quite  correct. 
That's  rather  fine  talk  for  the  gallery,  but  the  threat 
hardly  does  here.  You're  a  pretty  big  stockholder 
yourself,  you  know,  and  your  own  great  steel  in- 
terests are  not  over  clean.  It  would  certainly  be  best 
to  defend  the  case.  The  State  inspector,  too,  is  not 
altogether  unattached.  We're  pretty  well  within  — 
the  law."  He  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  he  smiled 
sarcastically.  He  was  not  looking  at  Hadley  now, 
but  out  of  the  window  on  those  bare,  gaunt  trees. 
"  The  law !  What  a  farce  it  is  sometimes !  Stone 
once  said  that  there  was  one  law  for  the  rich  and 
one  for  the  poor.  I  never  thought  of  it  before. 
Stone  is  of  the  caliber  that  would  —  give  himself 
up  for  a  principle." 

"  I  fancy  it  will  be  some  time  before  Mr.  Hector 
Stone  airs  his  views  again.  When  one  has  been 
nearly  cut  to  pieces  —  eyesight  endangered,  and  per- 
manently scarred  —  a  long  rest  in  a  hospital  seems 
best.  I  imagine  his  principles  will  wait  for  some 
time,"  said  Hadley. 

The  Scotchman's  gaze  quickly  left  the  view  from 
the  window,  and  he  looked  straight  at  Hadley. 

127 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  Oh,  come  now,  self-possession  and  grit  are  all 
right,  and  I  don't  mind  saying  I  rather  admire  the 
way  you're  taking  this  thing  —  especially  with  your 
daughter  so  ill  —  but  that  won't  go." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  the  Scotchman  again, 
looking  straight  into  Hadley's  eyes. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  don't  know 
what  all  the  papers  are  shrieking  in  glaring  head- 
lines, by  now  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  read  the  papers.  I  have  not  had 
time  or  —  wanted  to." 

"  Do  you  actually  mean  that  you  don't  know  that 
Stone  is  lying  injured  in  Saint  Vincent's  Hospital 
in  the  east  end  ?  " 

Martin's  hands  clasped  and  unclasped  themselves 
nervously.  He  gave  no  other  sign  of  agitation. 

"He  has  been  hurt?" 

Hadley  rose  with  a  suppressed  oath. 

"  This  is  really  too  much.  Don't  you  honestly 
know  that  he  was  one  of  the  foremen  in  mill  fif- 
teen?" 

Martin's  hand  went  up  to  his  collar  quickly.  He 
drew  a  deep  gasping  breath.  He  did  not  speak. 

"  He's  worked  there  for  months  under  the  name 
of  Joe  Blackburn  —  the  men  called  him  Blackie  — 
they  found  his  card  on  him,  and  sent  it  to  the  hos- 
pital later  —  "  Hadley  broke  off,  suddenly  conscious 
that  the  Scotchman  had  walked  over  to  the  window 
and  thrown  it  wide  open;  his  eyes  seemed  staring 
into  nothingness. 

128 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"His  hands!  His  hands!  and  —  scarred  for 
life  !  "  He  spoke  aloud,  but  as  though  he  were  alone. 

After  they  had  gone  —  he  was  not  conscious  when 
they  left,  Hadley  and  his  silent  partner  who  had 
scarcely  spoken  more  than  a  word  of  greeting  — 
he  continued  to  stand  there  staring  out  of  the  case- 
ment window.  By  and  by  he  began  to  walk  the 
length  of  the  room.  He  wondered  dully  if  he  would 
ever  be  tired  again.  The  motion  helped  somewhat 
the  tension  in  his  head. 

So  Stone  had  worked  in  mill  fifteen  for  months 
—  Stone  with  the  six-cylinder  car  and  the  immacu- 
late clothes  and  the  Chesterfield  manner  —  when  he 
wished  to  assume  it  —  and  with  the  blackened  hands. 
And  for  months  —  how  many  he  neither  knew  nor 
cared  —  Stone  had  received  on  a  Saturday  night  his 
pay  envelope  doled  out  from  the  mill  pay  window. 
A  hot  flush  swept  over  the  Scotchman's  face.  That 
pay!  Had  it  even  kept  him  in  cigars?  Why  had 
he  stayed  —  knowing  the  danger  —  why  ?  Why, 
if  not  to  stand  by  the  men  he  had  come  so  often  to 
argue  for,  here,  at  Martin's  house?  How  he  must 
have  despised  him  !  It  had  been  one  thing  for  Mar- 
tin himself  when  young  to  fight  upward  each  rung 
of  the  ladder  —  had  not  ambition  and  the  hope  of 
wealth  been  goad  enough  to  urge  him  on  ?  But  for 
this  man  —  for  what  had  he  served  ?  He  could  not 
have  liked  the  monotonous  manual  toil  of  the  long 
days.  The  pittance  that  he  earned  could  have  meant 
nothing  to  him.  He  had  given  of  his  labor  and  his 

129 


THE   SANCTUARY 


strength  and  his  time  and  brain  fitted  for  better 
things  —  to  what?  Was  a  principle  of  life  a  tangi- 
ble thing  after  all  ?  Was  this  why  Blair  was  raving 
in  delirium  upstairs.  Did  she  know?  Scarred  for 
life  !  And  he,  whenever  he  should  see  him  again  — 
whenever  men  should  look,  they  would  see  that  red 
mark  of  courage  on  this  man's  face  —  and  the  sign 
of  his  own  dishonor. 

He  stopped  walking  at  last  and  threw  himself  in 
a  chair,  and  in  the  dark  sat  watching  the  glowing 
embers  on  the  hearth.  He  was  not  of  a  caliber  like 
that.  He  keenly  realized  he  never  could  be.  He  was 
not  sure  he  desired  to  be,  but  he  was  conscious  that 
the  world  had  been  changed  for  him  by  the  knowl- 
edge of  a  scar  upon  a  man's  face. 

He  dismissed  Brewster  shortly  when  he  came  to 
turn  on  the  lights,  and  he  did  not  go  to  dinner.  He 
was  conscious  of  neither  hunger  nor  fatigue.  Would 
not  Blair's  place  be  empty  —  the  place  she  had  taken 
when  her  mother  died  —  the  place  she  herself  might 
never  take  again.  He  was  glad  —  with  a  fierce 
gladness  —  that  Mary  Blair  had  gone.  He  went 
back  over  their  lives  together  —  the  first  meeting  — 
it  had  been  under  a  mimosa  tree,  as  had  been  the 
wooing  —  in  those  days  when  he  was  penniless,  ex- 
cept for  a  meager  salary  —  a  salary  a  trifle  more 
than  Hector  Stone  had  drawn  from  him  for  months. 
Yet  had  he  ever  known  perfect  happiness  since  then  ? 
The  realities  of  life  had  swept  in,  and  an  ambition 
and  a  craze  for  power  had  possessed  him.  There 
had  been  little  time  for  love  in  that  swift  race  for 

130 


THE   SANCTUARY 


-wealth.  He  had  always  felt  in  a  dull  way  —  and 
to-night  he  felt  it  keenly  —  that  she  had  loved  him 
to  the  end  as  she  had  in  the  beginning  —  and  he  had 
been  so  blind  !  He  had  never  forgotten  her,  but  the 
work  had  been  so  paramount  —  it  had  seemed  to  him 
that  if  one  must  work  to  win  one  must  starve  love 
from  one's  life.  He  had  won  and  she  had  died, 
and  he  knew  now,  that,  except  for  Blair,  in  spite  of 
all  the  wealth  he  had  lavished  on  her,  she  had  been 
glad  to  go. 

In  the  dark  he  rose  slowly,  and  slowly  crossed  the 
room  and  the  hall  beyond  and  climbed  the  stairs. 
He  walked  as  an  old  man  walks,  with  bent  shoulders 
and  bowed  head.  At  the  landing  that  led  off  to  the 
wing  where  Blair's  apartments  were,  he  paused, 
steadying  himself  with  one  hand  on  the  newel-post 
of  the  staircase.  A  dim  light  glowed  from  her  bed- 
room, and  as  he  listened,  wild  incoherent  ravings 
reached  him,  and  he  shivered  as  with  the  palsy. 
Then,  haltingly,  he  turned  into  the  passage  that  led 
to  his  own  rooms  and  passed  in  and  closed  the  door. 


131 


XIII. 

THE  hours  dragged  themselves  out  into  long 
days  and  nights,  and  the  nights  and  days 
passed  into  weeks.  Outside  in  the  grounds 
of  The  Anchorage,  the  last  vestige  of  snow  melted 
from  the  lawns,  and  the  violets  came  and  went  as 
silently  as* souls  at  death  creep  forth  from  outer 
forms.  The  first  soft  green  hung  on  the  willows  by 
the  stream  in  the  pasture,  and  in  the  garden  where 
Thomas  and  his  assistants  worked,  a  miracle  of 
beauty  was  being  wrought  from  the  dull  cold  clod 
that  seemed  almost  unwilling  to  yield  up  its  secrets 
to  the  sun's  increasing  warmth.  Inside  the  great 
house  dwelt  a  silence  more  profound  than  in  the 
heart  of  outer  nature,  broken  only  by  faint  neces- 
sary noises  or  voices  pitched  to  their  lowest  key. 
The  shrill  discordant  cries  of  delirium,  in  the  room 
where  Blair  lay  ill,  had  ceased  and  had  given  place 
to  a  stillness  and  a  stupor  from  which  it  seemed  im- 
possible to  arouse  her.  The  fever  enveloped  her 
body  as  a  sheet  of  flame  envelopes  an  object  that  for 
a  time  resists  its  will  only  later  to  yield  and  crumble 
to  its  fall.  It  was  as  though  for  her  all  time  had 
ceased,  and  spirit  and  consciousness  lay  suspended  in 
a  vast  void.  And  day  and  night,  unseen  by  Andrew 
Martin  in  his  agony,  or  the  physicians  or  the  nurses 

132 


THE   SANCTUARY 


or  the  retinue  of  servants,  but  sensed  by  all,  stood 
the  Overwhelming  Presence  by  the  door,  bearing  in 
its  hands  the  scales. 

It  came  —  that  Overwhelming  Presence  —  to  be 
at  last  a  tangible  thing  to  Martin.  It  followed  him 
in  his  comings  and  his  goings  —  it  oppressed  him 
with  a  weight  that  he  could  not  lift.  In  the  silences 
of  the  night  it  awakened  him  from  fitful  feverish 
dreams  of  a  burning  mill  and  maimed  and  broken 
lives,  and  stood  specter-like  above  him,  and  there  in 
the  darkness  there  came  at  its  bidding  the  vision  of 
years  to  come,  barren  of  man's  regard,  of  woman's 
love  —  visions  in  which  only  a  vast  avenue  of  gold 
stretched  out  in  endless  miles  ahead  of  him,  stripped 
of  all  except  its  own  gleaming  splendor. 

As  the  aged  walk,  he  walked  about  the  great 
house  until,  driven  by  the  Presence,  he  would  creep 
as  some  hunted  thing,  once  strong,  now  abjectly 
weak,  out  into  the  grounds.  None  of  the  servants 
except  it  might  be  Hannah  or  old  Brewster  or 
Thomas,  dared  to  address  him.  Sometimes,  half 
mad,  he  would  hunt  Thomas  out  in  the  garden  and 
try  to  talk  to  him.  An  odd  change  took  place  in 
their  interviews.  The  old  retainer  found  no  trace, 
in  the  lined  and  haggard  face,  in  the  stooped 
shoulders,  in  the  uncertain  voice,  of  the  able,  cal- 
culating, precise  master  of  six  weeks  ago.  Thomas 
offered  the  silent  consolation  of  his  life  work  —  a 
garden  that  grew  more  beautiful  as  time  went  on; 
that  was  the  envy  of  all  the  other  big  estates  for 
miles  around,  and  in  which  for  years,  except  for 

133 


THE   SANCTUARY 


Blair,  he  had  held  undisputed  sway.  But  there  came 
an  hour  when  the  sight  of  the  flowers  that  for  years 
Martin  had  only  dimly  appreciated  —  when  the 
mimosa  tree  —  was  more  than  he  could  bear,  and, 
bent  and  shriveled,  he  would  retrace  his  steps  to  the 
great  house  to  be  met  by  the  watching,  waiting 
Presence  there. 

That  was  the  afternoon  that  Lorimer  and  the 
great  specialist  sought  him  out  in  the  library  and 
told  him  that  somewhere  around  midnight  they  ex- 
pected a  change,  that  the  scales  so  long  suspended 
must  drop  either  to  the  side  of  life  or  death.  They 
left  him  as  they  had  found  him,  a  crouching  object 
of  a  man  in  his  big  chair  in  the  wainscoted  library. 

The  hearth  below  the  high  mantel  was  cleanly 
swept,  and  stretched  its  tiled  length  in  front  of  him. 
The  fireplace  was  filled  with  growing  plants,  where 
earlier  in  the  year  the  great  logs  had  burned.  A 
chill  took  possession  of  him,  and  he  glanced  around 
the  huge  empty  room.  In  it,  in  all  the  house,  save 
Blair,  there  dwelt  no  human  creature  of  his  own; 
there  existed  in  all  his  life  no  one  upon  whom  now 
in  his  weakness  he  might  lean.  Had  it  come  to  this, 
he  wondered  dimly,  the  impotency  of  gold,  that  it 
could  neither  buy  back  men's  lives  nor  mend  wid- 
owed hearts  nor  return  to  children  the  fathers  they 
had  lost  —  that  had  no  power  to  make  a  man's  arm 
grow  again  where  it  had  been  wrenched  off  —  that 
was  of  too  base  a  coinage  to  buy  human  ties  or 
human  loves;  that  was  powerless  to  save  Blair  if 
the  Presence  chose  to  drop  the  scales  the  fraction  of 

134 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

an  inch;  that  never  in  this  world  could  wipe  out 
the  scar  on  the  face  of  Hector  Stone. 

He  started  and  leaned  forward  suddenly  in  his 
chair,  gripping  its  arms  with  his  fingers,  and  he 
stared  and  stared  into  the  fireplace  of  flowers.  He 
had  never  seen  the  scar;  he  had  never  heard  from 
Hector  Stone  since  this  desolation  had  come  to  him. 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  made  for  his  desk  tele- 
phone. An  overpowering  impulse  to  see  Stone  came 
to  him  —  to  look  upon  his  work,  the  scar.  An  over- 
powering sense  of  fear  such  as  he  had  never  known 
swept  over  him  —  the  need  of  some  one  (and  in  that 
instant  his  groping  soul  reached  out  and  sensed 
Stone's  own)  for  some  one  who  cared  to  watch  out 
this  night  with  him. 

At  the  telephone  he  hesitated.  After  all  where 
was  he  to  be  found  —  at  the  hospital  —  at  his  old 
chambers?  Feverishly  he  rang  up  both.  From 
Saint  Vincent's  came  the  word  that  Mr.  Stone  — 
Joe  Blackburn  —  had  been  dismissed  a  fortnight 
ago.  From  the  chambers  came  the  word  that  Stone 
had  moved,  and  had  left  behind  no  address.  The 
information  department  of  the  telephone  system 
gave  no  clew. 

He  slipped  back  into  his  desk  chair,  his  nails 
against  his  mouth,  a  thwarted  and  a  half-crazed 
Thing.  His  brain  —  that  brain  that  had  devised 
such  vast  schemes  for  self-enrichment  on  other 
creatures'  woe  —  had  it  forsaken  him  now?  He 
closed  his  eyes  to  hide  from  himself  the  Shadowy 
Presence  facing  him ;  behind  it  stood  the  gray  ghosts 

135 


THE   SANCTUARY 


of  mill  men  looking  at  him  with  haunting-  eyes. 
Then  as  a  tree  might  suddenly  snap  in  a  storm,  he 
flung  his  head  and  arms  on  the  desk  and  cried,  as 
he  had  only  cried  once  in  his  life  before,  down  in 
the  far  south  alone  in  the  darkness  of  a  Mississippi 
night  under  a  mimosa  tree,  the  hour  Blair  had  been 
born. 

When  it  was  over  he  began  to  think  more  clearly 
than  he  had  done  since  the  accident  to  mill  fifteen. 
Something  of  the  old  ability  to  marshal  his  forces 
came  back  to  him  and  for  a  brief  space  the  Haunting 
Presence  and  the  ghosts  drew  back  and  were  for- 
gotten. He  reached  for  pen  and  paper  and  wrote 
to  the  Chief  of  Police  —  a  personal  letter  —  and 
another  to  Hector  Stone.  Then  he  rang  for  Brew- 
ster.  Through  all  the  years  of  service,  Brewster 
had  never  failed  him. 

At  ten  that  night  he  heard  the  sound  of  an  auto- 
mobile in  the  courtyard,  then  Brewster's  voice  in  the 
hall.  The  impatience,  the  earlier  hope,  suddenly 
fled.  What  was  it  he  had  done?  How  could  he 
bring  himself  to  face  the  scar?  He  switched  off  the 
lights  and  only  one  with  a  leaded  glass  shade  of 
Tiffany  ware  cast  its  soft  glow  and  shadows  on  the 
desk  at  which  he  sat.  The  rest  of  the  big  room  was 
in  darkness.  He  could  hear  it  —  the  step  he  re- 
membered—  he  was  almost  at  the  door.  Then 
Brewster's  voice. 

"  Mr.  Stone,  sir." 

He  rose  as  Brewster  closed  the  paneled  door  be- 

136 


THE   SANCTUARY 


hind  him  and  stood  by  the  desk  waiting.  It  seemed 
to  him  he  could  not  move  to  meet  him.  He  was 
conscious  that  Stone  still  stood  by  the  door,  his  hat 
in  his  hand,  regarding  him. 

By  and  by  he  left  the  desk  and  came  forward,  and 
he  did  not  see,  or  seeing  care,  the  start  of  surprise 
Stone  gave.  Had  not  his  own  mirror  reflected  his 
changed  face  for  weeks  ? 

"  So  you  have  come.  It  was  good  of  you,"  he 
said  at  length. 

"  I  have  come  —  yes." 

Stone  remained  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the 
door  and  did  not  offer  to  break  the  silence  that  fell. 
Martin  went  back  to  the  desk  and  began  nervously 
to  play  with  a  Florentine  paper-knife.  He  was 
acutely  grateful  for  the  shadows  that  hid  Stone's 
face  from  him  a  little  longer. 

"  Where  did  Brewster  find  you  ?  "  he  asked,  try- 
ing to  speak  lightly.  Then  :  "  Won't  you  have  a 
chair?" 

Stone  moved  across  the  room.  The  Scotchman 
knew  that  he  was  coming  nearer  the  arc  of  light, 
and  he  suddenly  sat  down. 

"  You  have  a  treasure,  Mr.  Martin,  in  your  man," 
said  Stone,  standing  by  the  desk.  "  He  never  traced 
me  until  after  nine,  but  he  wouldn't  give  up.  He 
found  me  at  Doctor  Lorimer's." 

"  Lorimer's  !  "  the  older  man  started.  "  You 
mean  you  are  —  "  he  broke  off. 

"  Staying  with  Bragdon  Lorimer.  He  was  my 
uncle's  best  friend.  I  have  known  him  ever  since 

137 


THE   SANCTUARY 


I  was  a  little  shaver.  He  helped  to  care  for  me  at 
Saint  Vincent's." 

The  Scotchman  heard  a  chair  move  and  knew  that 
Stone  was  seated  opposite.  Still  he  could  not  raise 
his  bent  head  leaning  in  his  hand.  Still  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  look  upon  that  scar.  Stone's 
voice  reached  him.  It  held  and  charmed  him  still. 

"  You  sent  for  me.    Can  I  be  of  service?  " 

The  Scotchman's  shaking  hand  dropped  suddenly 
from  his  face.  Across  the  length  of  the  big  flat- 
topped  desk  he  looked  at  Stone. 

"  I  believe  I  am  slowly  going  mad,"  he  said. 
"  The  mills  —  the  dead  men  —  and  Blair  —  and 
that  —  "  he  pointed  to  the  left  side  of  Stone's  face 
where,  in  the  arc  of  light,  the  long  red  disfigurement 
mercilessly  stood  out. 

Stone  began  to  trace  patterns  on  the  desk  with  the 
tip  of  his  finger. 

"It  is  not  a  pretty  thing  —  is  it?"  he  asked  at 
length,  "  but  of  late  I  have  scarcely  remembered  it." 
Then  after  a  pause  :  "  Why  have  you  sent  for  me?  " 

The  Scotchman's  nails  went  up  again  to  his 
mouth  ;  he  crouched  lower  in  his  chair.  His  hunted 
eyes  rested  fascinated  on  the  mark  on  Stone's  face. 

"  I  am  going  mad,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  I  am  mad 
already.  I  sent  for  you  because,  although  I  wronged 
you,  I  need  you  to  help  me  through  to-night.  The 
dead  men  —  they  are  always  near  me  —  and  the 
women's  faces  and  the  children's  cries  —  and  Blair 
—  Blair  —  " 

He  broke  off  and  his  face  was  as  colorless  as  the 

138 


THE    SANCTUARY 


dead  men's  they  had  carried  from  the  horrors  of 
mill  fifteen. 

Stone  shivered  suddenly.  He  had  schooled  him- 
self for  days  for  this  meeting,  but  the  look  upon  the 
other  man's  face  —  or  was  it  the  mention  of  a 
woman's  name  —  unnerved  him.  He  turned  his 
face  away. 

The  long  silence  grew  —  there  seemed  nothing 
but  silence  —  no  sound  in  all  the  house  of  which 
they  were  conscious.  Even  the  clock  on  the  high 
mantel  had  stopped. 

"  Yesterday,"  said  Stone  slowly,  "  I  helped  Lori- 
mer  with  a  case  in  the  slums.  It  was  in  the  midst 
of  filth  and  want  and  despair,  and  he  burned  an  eat- 
ing sore  out  of  a  man's  body  with  caustic  —  "  The 
slow  voice  changed  a  little,  growing  sterner,  "  Mr. 
Martin,  there  is  a  filth  worse  than  vermin  and  de- 
cay —  a  want  grimmer  and  more  terrible  than  that 
of  physical  poverty  —  a  despair  keener  than  the 
bodily  needs  of  men.  I  live  in  both  worlds  ;  I  have 
worked  in  both  worlds,  and  I  know,  and  the  cancer 
on  the  morals  of  the  rich  is  worse  than  that  running 
sore.  Caustic  is  needed  for  both,  leaving  maimed, 
incomplete  bodies,  it  is  true,  but  perhaps  restoring 
—  health." 

The  Scotchman  dropped  his  forehead  on  the  end 
of  the  desk. 

"  For  God's  sake  —  stop!  " 

Again  Stone's  voice  changed.  This  time  it  hardly 
seemed  the  same. 

"  I  am  here  to  help  you  watch  through  the  night." 

139 


THE   SANCTUARY 


To  himself  he  said,  "  I  was  watching  when  you  sent 
for  me." 

"  You  know  then  that  —  that  to-night  —  they  ex- 
pect a  change  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  Doctor  Lorimer  has  kept  me  posted  from 
the  first." 

"Ah!" 

Then  the  silence  fell  again,  and  by  and  by  Stone 
noticed  that  the  bent  shoulders  of  the  man  opposite 
were  shivering  with  cold.  He  leaned  forward  and 
pressed  the  electric  bell,  which  Brewster,  who  had 
been  haunting  the  door,  hastily  answered. 

"  Some  wine  for  Mr.  Martin,"  said  Stone,  "  and 
a  good  fire,  please." 

Later,  as  Brewster  knelt  before  the  hearth,  Stone 
came  up  behind  him  and  reset  the  clock  upon  the 
mantel.  It  was  five  minutes  of  eleven. 

"Doctor  Lorimer  is  here?"  he  asked  in  a  low 
voice,  and  his  hand  shook  as  he  replaced  his  watch. 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  Doctor  Curtis,  too.  I  heard  them 
say  they  would  spend  the  night.  Miss  Blair  is 
mighty  sick,  sir." 

"  Yes,  Brewster  —  mighty  sick." 

Brewster  applied  the  match  and  sat  back  on  his 
heels  to  watch  that  the  kindling  caught.  By  and  by 
he  looked  up  at  Stone. 

"  Has  she  any  chance,  Mr.  Stone  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Brewster.  I  —  don't  — 
know  —  "  said  Stone  at  length.  "  Do  you  ?  " 

Brewster  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and  gave  a  nerv- 
ous cough. 

140 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  Years  ago,  sir,  my  old  mother  taught  me  before 
she  died  that  the  first  and  last  chance  is  —  prayer," 
he  gave  his  attention  wholly  to  the  fire,  "  but  we 
don't  think  much  of  those  things  now,  sir." 

Stone  was  silent.  Quite  irrelevantly  he  saw  the 
face  of  Pierre  Lamore  in  the  flames. 

"  Anything  more,  sir?  " 

"  Nothing,  thank  you,  Brewster.  Wait,"  as  the 
man  would  have  gone,  "  get  word  to  Doctor  Lorimer 
that  Mr.  Martin  is  waiting  news  of  any  change  here. 
That  —  he  sent  for  me  —  that  I  shall  wait  with  him 
until  we  —  know." 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  if  I  might  say  it,  sir,  it's  mighty 
glad  I  am  that  Mr.  Martin's  got  a  friend  to  help 
him  through  to-night  —  "he  hesitated,  looked  once 
towards  the  crouching  immovable  figure  at  the  desk 
and  then  softly  closed  the  door. 

When  he  had  gone  Stone  left  the  fire  and  re- 
crossed  the  room,  and  poured  out  some  wine.  He 
touched  Martin  on  the  arm. 

"  Drink  this,"  he  commanded,  "  it  will  help  you. 
Then  come  with  me  to  the  fire." 

Unresistingly  the  Scotchman  did  as  he  was  bid- 
den. By  and  by  Stone  got  him  settled  in  an  arm- 
chair by  the  hearth.  Once  he  leaned  over  and 
chafed  the  older  man's  cold  hands. 

After  a  little,  the  warmth  of  the  great  fire  to  his 
body  and  the  heat  of  the  wine  to  his  brain,  soothed 
and  brought  to  Martin  a  certain  languor  such  as  he 
had  not  known  in  weeks.  He  stared  into  the  fire, 
but  there  came  no  visions  of  horror  to  disturb  him 

141 


*%  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

now.  The  Brooding  Presence  was  forgotten  —  per- 
haps shielded  from  him  by  the  strong  will  of  the 
man  beside  him,  who  seemed  to  give  him  strength. 
For  this  brief  time  the  ghosts  remained  unseen  and 
he  forgot  the  slow  ticking  of  the  clock,  the  scar 
upon  the  face  of  the  other  man,  and  the  battle 
being  fought  upstairs.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
and  a  brain  half-maddened  from  terror  and  fatigue, 
grew  calm,  as  Martin  closed  his  eyes  and  slept. 

In  the  cfcair  on  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace, 
Stone  sat  and  waited  for  the  passing  of  the  hour. 
Then  it  was  that  the  mask  he  wore  slowly  dropped, 
and  in  the  silence  of  the  room,  with  none  to  see,  the 
soul  of  the  man  lay  bare. 

Upstairs  they  were  fighting  for  her  life,  those  men 
of  skill.  How  slowly,  how  quickly  the  minutes 
passed!  He  counted  them  by  his  pulse,  and  each 
heart  throb  was  for  her.  Only  by  chance,  by  the 
need  of  another  man,  had  he  gotten  in  her  home 
to-night.  Those  others  —  those  trained  men  and 
women  upstairs  —  they  had  a  right  to  her  near 
presence  closer  than  his  own.  His  own!  What 
rights  were  his? 

He  leaned  forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his 
forehead  in  his  hands.  And  he  searched  his  brain 
for  the  philosophy  that  had  sustained  him  in  his 
work  in  the  under  world ;  he  grasped  for  the  hope ; 
the  faith  that  Pierre  Lamore  knew  and  understood 
so  well.  For  his  soul  lying  in  that  dark  abyss  there 
seemed  neither  time  nor  place.  Then  it  was  that 
his  consciousness  swept  into  the  void  where  for 

142 


THE   SANCTUARY 


days  her  own  had  lain  suspended,  and  his  own 
reached  out  instinctively  for  hers. 

"Blair,"  he  whispered,  "where  are  you,  Blair? 
.  .  .  Come  !  "  he  commanded. 

The  void  changed  into  a  sweeping  overwhelming 
Sea  of  Consciousness.  He  was  the  Sea  —  the  All 
and  —  he  was  nothing.  And  she  — 

"  Blair  !  "  he  said  again.  The  Consciousness  was 
All.  It  held  her,  too. 

"  Blair!  "  And  he  breathed  it  to  himself.  It  was 
as  if  he  had  called  upon  the  name  of  God. 


143 


XIV. 

OUT  into  the  new  unfolding  world  of  spring, 
a  month  later,  they  carried  her,  and  laid  her 
in  a  long  wicker  chair  in  the  sunshine. 
There  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved,  and  except  for 
the  yearning  earnest  eyes  with  which  she  looked 
around  on  old  familiar  objects,  she  might  have  been 
asleep.  For  a  while  the  nurse  lingered  near  and 
then,  seeing  that  she  needed  or  desired  nothing,  left 
her  to  herself.  She  was  dimly  glad  when  she  saw 
her  go,  but  would  have  made  no  effort  to  dismiss 
her.  Effort  was  a  thing  of  the  past  —  as  was 
thought.  In  the  low  valley  of  her  convalescence  the 
soul  of  her  stood  mute  and  motionless,  and  for  the 
present  the  dim  heights  of  health  to  be  rescaled 
seemed  a  remote  possibility.  She  was  conscious  only 
of  a  dim  awakening  in  her  weakness  to  the  things 
of  outward  sense.  Had  she  ever  seen  the  trees  so 
soft  and  green  —  how  wonderful  a  tree  was  —  how 
strong.  .  .  .  And  the  odor  of  the  box  hedge,  how  it 
came  to  her  sweet  and  pungent  after  the  night's 
shower!  Then  there  were  bits  of  delicate  color  be- 
yond the  garden  hedge  —  the  flowers  —  some  day 
she  would  see  them  nearer,  perhaps,  but  it  was  a  long 
walk  to  the  garden  and  the  mimosa  tree  —  once  she 
had  thought  it  near  at  hand  —  she  could  not  see  the 

144 


THE   SANCTUARY 


mimosa  tree  very  well.  It  had  no  flowers  as  yet. 
.  .  .  What  was  it  about  the  mimosa  tree  that  once 
had  made  her  sad.  .  .  .  How  tired  she  was  —  how 
tired  was  her  brain.  If  the  nurse  would  only  come 
with  old  Brewster  to  carry  her  upstairs.  .  .  . 

Each  day  they  brought  her  out  and  each  day  she 
lay  a  little  longer  in  the  wicker  chair,  and  each  day 
the  opening  world  of  spring  grew  fairer,  and  she 
read  an  inner  revelation  she  had  never  seen  before, 
as  she  watched  the  thickening  foliage  of  the  trees, 
the  increasing  bulk  and  beauty  of  the  flowers 
Thomas  brought  daily  and  placed  on  the  porch  table 
near  her. 

Slowly,  as  one  awakens  from  a  half-conscious 
doze,  she  awakened  to  the  realities  of  life  again.  It 
was  the  day  Thomas  had  added  to  his  offering  of 
flowers  one  slender  spray  from  the  mimosa  tree, 
that  the  first  keen  consciousness  came  back.  After 
he  had  gone  she  lay  staring  at  it  —  then  she  half 
rose  in  her  chair  and  touched  it.  She  was  acutely 
aware  of  her  weakness.  Unseen  she  laid  her  head 
down  on  the  porch  table  near  and  prayed  for  the 
gift  of  tears. 

She  had  never  once  asked  for  her  father.  And 
Lorimer,  fearing  a  relapse,  had  kept  him  away. 
Martin  used  to  look  at  her  sometimes  from  a  cur- 
tained window  or  shadowed  doorway,  as  old  Brew- 
ster bore  her  past  him,  white  and  emaciated,  in  his 
arms. 

Besides  the  money  and  the  mills  what  had  his  life 
held  but  Blair  ?  And  now  Blair  seemed  unconscious 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

alike  of  his  existence  or  his  need.  That  his  need 
for  her  had  become  paramount,  he  grew  to  know 
with  an  overwhelming  knowledge.  Sometimes  he 
drove  over  to  the  mills  and  he  would  creep  into  Jen- 
kins'  office,  shame  in  the  eyes  he  never  lifted,  if,  by 
chance,  any  passed  him  on  his  way.  Experts  had 
been  working  for  weeks  on  the  new  safety  devices 
for  the  machinery  through  all  the  twenty  mills  — 
otherwise  things  were  much  the  same.  He  had 
never  recrossed  the  thresholds  of  the  stricken  homes. 
He  knew  that  each  month  Hadley  sent  them  the 
pensions.  He  did  not  know  that  there  were  those 
in  that  vast  throng  of  working  men  who  each  morn- 
ing and  each  night  filed  in  and  out  to  labor  —  pup- 
pets to  a  shrill  whistle's  call  —  whose  eyes  looked 
with  envy  on  the  pension  Griefstin  drew  for  his 
maimed  arm ;  or  that  there  were  hearts  beneath  the 
grime  and  sweat  that  beat  faster  with  the  divine 
longing  to  renounce  their  lives  as  the  other  men  had 
done,  that  sometime  their  women  might  have  time 
to  rest  —  their  children  have  more  cause  to  smile. 

Once  in  a  shamefaced  way  he  mentioned  to  Jen- 
kins an  increase  in  their  pay,  the  possibility  of 
shorter  hours,  but  with  a  business  instinct  and  a 
business  logic  that  had  drawn  Jenkins  to  him  long 
ago  and  held  him  for  twenty-five  years  in  his  em- 
ploy, the  manager  had  talked  convincingly  of  the 
folly  of  such  a  deviation  from  the  accepted  schedule. 
When  the  Scotchman  had  hesitatingly  asked  if  some 
other  mill  owners  had  not  of  late  been  trying  such 
experiments,  Jenkins  met  him  with  a  knowledge  of 

146 


$£  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

statistics  as  to  the  loss  per  annum  such  experiments 
caused  —  of  the  falling  away  of  political  influence  — 
crushing  defeats  from  the  Interests  —  and  Martin 
stood  appalled.  Of  course  if  Mr.  Martin  wished  to 
face  all  this  —  to  curtail  his  power  for  a  wild  ex- 
perimental dream  and  turn  a  thriving  industry,  that 
now  yielded  him  a  fortune  every  year,  into  a  losing 
investment  —  if  he  wished  to  incur  the  enmity  and 
ridicule  of  men  even  more  powerful  than  himself  in 
the  world  of  finance  —  the  mills  —  unmortgaged, 
uninvolved  in  any  way  —  a  modern  mine  of  gold  — 
were  his  to  do  with  as  he  liked.  In  that  case,  he, 
Jenkins,  would  feel  that  his  day  of  service  in  the 
concern  was  at  an  end.  The  Scotchman,  filled  with 
panic  at  the  thought  of  losing  his  right-hand  man, 
and  alone  facing  the  unknown  proposition,  cowering 
beneath  the  threat  of  failure  and  ridicule,  unresist- 
ingly signed  his  veto  to  the  paper  Jenkins  put  before 
him.  It  was  an  appeal  from  the  men  for  a  larger 
night  shift.  Jenkins  assured  him  that  the  shift  was 
already  large  enough,  larger  than  like  shifts  in  other 
mills  of  the  kind  throughout  the  country.  The  men 
were  a  shrewd  lot  and  were  taking  advantage  of  the 
unfortunate  accident  that  was  still  fresh  in  their 
minds.  Jenkins  was  willing  to  admit  that  he  had 
underestimated  the  danger  of  the  machinery  —  he 
had  never  taken  very  much  to  the  mechanical  side 
of  the  work  —  but  he  was  on  his  own  ground  with 
the  men. 

The  Scotchman  left  him  complacently  giving  or- 
ders  unconscious  that  he  had  given  Jenkins  a  bad 


m 


quarter  of  an  hour.  He  got  into  his  waiting  auto- 
mobile, and  in  a  dispirited  way  ordered  Willis  to 
drive  him  home,  —  the  word  was  a  farce  since 
Blair's  illness;  since  the  indifference  with  which 
she  treated  his  existence.  Perhaps  it  came  from  her 
weakness  —  Lorimer  had  once  in  an  uncertain  way 
suggested  it  —  it  was  a  hope  to  which  he  clung. 
Some  day  she  might  arouse  from  the  lethargy  that 
seemed  to  enfold  her  and  might  ask  for  him.  Since 
the  night  in  the  big  library  when  Stone  had  awa- 
kened him  and  told  him  Blair  would  live,  the  haunt- 
ing ghosts  had  now  and  then  faded  away,  and  he 
had  known  a  dim  semblance  of  peace.  After  a 
while,  when  the  horror  had  grown  dimmer  —  when 
Blair  came  back  to  him  —  life  would  be  as  it  was 
before.  When  Blair  came  back!  Would  Blair  ever 
come  back  and  take  that  place  in  his  life  again, 
he  wondered.  He  put  the  thought  from  him  and 
stared  across  the  road.  They  were  passing  through 
the  settlement  of  rough  and  decaying  cottages  where 
the  workmen  lived.  Did  they  live,  he  wondered 
suddenly,  was  their  existence  —  life?  Perhaps  his 
old  defense  that  he  had  once  worked  for  less  than 
they  —  that  every  man  had  his  chance  —  was  a  fal- 
lacy after  all,  and  suddenly  and  quite  irrelevantly 
he  thought  of  Hector  Stone.  He  had  seen  Stone 
twice  since  that  night  in  the  library  at  the  Anchor- 
age. Once  Stone  had  called  and  had  sat  with  him 
an  hour.  He  remembered  it  was  the  longest  hour 
he  had  ever  spent  —  facing  that  long  and  jagged 
scar  —  the  scar  —  and  the  ghosts.  Once  he  had 

148 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

passed  Stone  on  the  street.  He  wondered  how  Stone 
would  meet  Jenkins'  argument.  Stone,  too,  knew 
the  men,  and  perhaps  from  a  different  standpoint 
than  did  Jenkins. 

Bent,  and  with  the  weight  of  years  upon  him  that 
he  had  never  felt  until  of  late,  the  Scotchman  de- 
scended to  the  courtyard.  Brewster  met  him,  and 
deferentially  held  open  the  door  of  the  tonneau.  For 
a  moment  Martin  hesitated,  a  slow  hope  dawning  in 
his  eyes. 

"  Your  mistress  ?  " 

"  In  her  chair,  sir,  under  the  trees.  I  carried  her 
there  an  hour  ago.  Doctor  Lorimer  left  his  regards, 
sir,  and  said  she  was  gaining  every  day." 

"  That  is  good.     She  —  she  has  asked  for  me  ?  " 

Old  Brewster  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  yet,  sir,  perhaps  to-morrow,  sir  —  " 

Andrew  Martin  stepped  past  him. 

"  Yes,  perhaps  to-morrow,  Brewster." 

And  still  more  bent,  he  passed  through  the  hall 
and  into  the  library  alone.  It  was  always  alone.  .  .  . 
For  a  moment  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
On  every  hand  was  luxury  —  such  luxury  as  few 
men  know  —  and  he  remembered  with  a  thrill  of 
conquest  and  of  pride  that  he  had  won  it  —  wrested 
it  from  the  hands  of  fate.  How  well  had  he  built 
his  structure  after  all !  Should  he  renounce  now  at 
the  summit  the  power  he  had  so  long  craved  —  cur- 
tail it  the  fraction  of  an  inch,  or  see  diminished  the 
vast  hoard  for  which  he  had  toiled  and  sweated  and 
given  the  years  of  his  life  that  might  have  been  spent 

149 


THE   SANCTUARY 


in  enjoying  other  things?  The  blood  of  his  youth 
and  of  his  prime  had  gone  into  the  struggle,  and  he 
was  too  old  now  for  the  things  other  men  cared  for 
—  sport  and  travel,  or  art,  perhaps,  and  books.  He 
had  paid  the  price. 

The  thoughts  were  checked  as  wild  horses  are 
brought  to  a  stop.  He  had  paid  the  price. 

In  the  empty  room  with  its  high  carved  wain- 
scoting and  priceless  pictures,  and  windows  leading 
to  a  larger  view  of  beauty  and  possessions,  he  stood 
quite  still  —  alone. 

The  price  !  —  was  there  something  existing  in 
those  wretched  homes  of  his  workmen  that  was 
lacking  here? 

Was  there  something  after  all  beyond  price  —  be- 
yond the  reach  of  his  long  arm  of  power? 

And  once  again  he  saw  the  mimosa  tree  in  the  far 
South.  Once  more  beneath  it  he  saw  Mary  Blair  — 
a  child  held  in  her  arms. 


150 


XV. 

IT  was  the  next  day  that  Martin  came  unexpect- 
edly upon  Blair,  and  the  meeting  that  he  had 
hoped  for,  and  yet  dreaded  for  weeks,  became  a 
reality.  He  had  thought  that  she  was  upstairs  in 
the  big  sun  parlor,  asleep.  The  ghosts  that  for  a 
time  had  been  quieted  had  risen  again,  their  haunt- 
ing semblances  at  his  side.  It  was,  perhaps,  to  rid 
himself  of  them  that  he  had  started  on  a  walk  around 
the  grounds.  For  a  while  he  had  watched  Thomas 
at  his  work  among  the  flowers,  and  talked  a  little  to 
him  in  a  half-hearted  way,  and  then  had  slowly  re- 
traced his  steps  toward  the  house.  On  rounding  the 
southern  corner  he  came  upon  her  before  he  was 
aware  of  it,  and  retreat  seemed  impossible.  She  had 
heard  his  step  upon  the  graveled  pathway  and  slowly 
turned  her  head  in  his  direction.  For  a  moment  she 
looked  at  him  in  silence,  and  he,  before  whom  some 
of  the  great  moneyed  men  of  America  had  stood 
dumb,  began  to  tremble  childishly,  waiting  for  a 
word.  Then,  without  comment  of  any  kind,  with 
a  gesture  of  inexpressible  weariness,  she  turned  her 
face  away.  A  slow,  dull  rage  awoke  in  him  that  was 
stilled  as  he  noticed  the  frailness  of  her  face,  the 
transparent  look  of  the  hand  where  Mary  Blair's 
ring  still  shone.  He  came  forward  and  stood  by  the 


THE   SANCTUARY 


arm  of  her  chair,  the  paternal,  all  the  best  in  him, 
rising  to  meet  her  weakness  and  her  need. 

"Blair,"  he  said,  "my  bairn!" 

For  a  brief  moment  the  white  half-closed  eyelids 
fluttered,  and  it  seemed  as  though  she  would  look 
at  him.  Then  the  colorless  lips  trembled,  but  she 
neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Desperately  he  felt  the  gulf  between  them  widen- 
ing, and  more  desperately  still  came  the  knowledge 
of  his  need  of  her  just  now. 

"  You  are  getting  stronger  ?  Oh,  Blair,  these 
weeks  without  you  —  you  have  been  so  ill  !  "  he 
spoke  disconnectedly  —  hurriedly,  feverishly,  watch- 
ing her  face  for  a  change. 

Her  eyes  opened  wide  and  she  stared  across  the 
lawn.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  so  ill  —  if 
I  only  could  have  died  !  " 

The  voice  was  weak  and  passionless  and  without 
hope. 

"Blair!" 

She  went  on  as  if  she  had  not  heard  him  call  her 
name. 

"  The  best  in  me  died  long  ago,  yet  some- 
thing —  "  she  hesitated  a  moment,  and  a  faint  color 
crept  into  her  face  that  he,  intently  watching,  did  not 
understand,  "  something  —  kept  me  here." 

"  It  was  because  I  needed  you,"  said  Martin,  and 
his  face  was  as  colorless  as  hers. 

"  You  do  not  really  need  me  —  "  he  remembered 
afterwards  the  calmness  of  her  voice  —  "  there  is 
nothing  that  I  have  to  give  you  now  that  you  have 

152 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

not  had  all  these  years.  You  have  the  money  that 
has  been  your  need  ever  since  I  could  remember  — 
it  broke  my  mother's  heart  and  it  is  breaking  mine 
—  but  —  you  have  the  money  still." 

"  Hush,  you  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying  — 
you  shall  not  speak  so,"  and  Martin  began  to  walk 
up  and  down  to  still  the  rising  tide  of  shame  and 
anger  within  him. 

"  I  have  had  weeks  to  think  it  over,  and  I  know 
what  I  am  saying,"  and  she  turned  her  eyes  to  his. 
"  I  never  knew  all  my  mother  suffered  —  until 
now." 

He  said  nothing,  but  he  walked  a  little  faster. 

"I  —  I  was  so  proud  of  you,"  she  said  brokenly, 
like  a  little  child. 

He  stopped  in  his  walk  and  began  to  shiver  in 
spite  of  the  warm  day.  The  fever  of  anger  had  re- 
ceded and  it  seemed  to  him  he  had  been  plunged 
into  a  bath  of  ice.  Listening,  he  knew  that  her  faith 
in  him  was  dead. 

"  As  soon  as  I  am  stronger  I  am  going  away," 
she  said  after  a  little,  and  she  drew  the  shawl  around 
her  shoulders  a  little  closer,  as  if  the  chill  of  the 
blight  had  come  on  her,  too. 

He  started,  and  stopped  in  his  walk. 

"  Going  —  where  —  with  whom  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure  where,"  she  said  wearily,  "  just 
somewhere  to  get  away  from  things  —  and  myself. 
I  shall  take  Hannah  —  good  old  Hannah  —  some- 
wHere  I  shall  learn  to  face  life  again.  I  have  no  one 
but  Hannah.  I  have  never  had  any  close  friends  — 

153 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

real  friends  —  as  other  women.  My  life  was  my 
mother's  before  she  died.  Then  it  belonged  to  you." 

"  Blair  —  let  it  be  mine  still !  " 

For  a  long  while  she  looked  at  him,  and  in  the 
weeks  and  months  that  followed  he  remembered 
every  line  in  her  white  face. 

"  You  never  were  —  all  I  thought  you,"  she  said 
slowly. 

"  I  am  no  worse  than  other  men,"  and  he  spoke 
sharply,  and  the  flame  of  anger  burned  within  him 
again.  "  I  am  not  as  bad  as  many.  I  have  lived  a 
clean  life  —  as  men's  lives  go.  I  have  never  con- 
sciously forgotten  —  your  mother.  As  for  the  mills 

—  the  money  — "  the  words  were  pouring  out  to 
escape  from  the  white  heat  of  fury  that  burned  be- 
hind   them  —  "  what  —  besides    this  —  "    he    mo- 
tioned to  the  home  and   grounds  —  "  besides  the 
physical  comforts  —  luxuries  of  life,  if  you  will  — 
have  I  gotten  from  the  money?     Have  I  withheld 
it  from  worthy  charities  —  have  I  begrudged  it  to 
the  servants  in  the  house  —  did  I  ever  stint  your 
mother  —  has  not  your  smallest  wish  been  bought 
and  gratified?  " 

Slowly  she  sat  up  in  her  chair  and  leaned  forward 
without  support  —  a  thing  she  had  not  done  in  weeks 

—  and  she  clasped  her  hands  together  tightly  in 
front  of  her  breast.    White,  emaciated,  with  shining 
eyes  she  looked  at  him  again. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  her  voice  low  with  emotion, 
"  There  are  needs  in  my  life  —  in  the  life  of  every 
woman  —  as  there  were  in  my  mother's  life  —  that 

154 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

cannot  be  bought  and  gratified  so.  Your  money 
brought  you  more  than  the  luxuries.  No  human 
man  or  woman  ever  toiled  as  you  toiled  —  ever  re- 
nounced the  finer  things  as  you  did  —  without  some 
purpose.  My  mother  knew  long  ago  what  I,  until 
now,  only  dimly  guessed.  It  was  not  all  for  us  — 
it  was  not  first  for  us  —  you  struggled.  You 
wanted  something  more  than  the  luxuries.  You 
wanted  the  esteem  of  other  men  —  you  wanted 
glory  —  above  all  you  wanted  —  power !  And  when 
you  won  them  —  all  those  great  gifts  of  life  —  how 
did  you  use  them?  For  the  esteem  of  men  whose 
hands  I  would  not  touch,  you  killed  the  Labor  Bill 
before  the  legislature  of  your  state.  For  the  glory, 
you  built  and  endowed  a  home  for  fallen  women, 
while  you  gave  starvation  wages  to  the  women  in 
your  mills.  Was  the  home  —  to  shelter  them  ?  And 
for  your  power  —  because  you  had  power  over  hun- 
dreds of  workmen  that  toiled  to  add  to  your  wealth 
—  you  refused  them  the  protection  of  safety  devices 
on  the  machinery,  demanded  by  bare  humanity ;  and 
their  blood,  and  the  anguish  of  their  women  and 
little  children,  and  the  scar  on  the  face  of  the  man 
who  shared  his  life  with  them  —  is  on  you,  and  is 
on  my  heart." 

For  a  moment  she  sat  as  she  was,  then  with  a 
long  breath  of  exhaustion,  let  herself  back  in  her 
chair. 

"  For  years  you  were  my  ideal  of  strength  —  of 
wisdom  —  my  mother,  in  her  love  for  you,  kept  the 
ideals  bright..  If  I  questioned  your  indifference,  as 

155 


THE   SANCTUARY 


children  will,  she  hushed  me  with  a  look  or  word. 
Did  you  not  labor  for  us,  and,  after  us,  did  you  not 
labor  for  the  good  that  you  might  do?  " 

He  listened,  and  he  was  as  a  man  changed  to 
stone.  She  knew  him  as  he  was  —  as  he  had  barely 
known  himself  —  and  she  was  judging  him. 

After  a  while  he  spoke.  He  had  no  thought  of 
questioning  her  source  of  information  —  it  was  piti- 
fully correct  —  and  in  his  fear  he  forgot  all  except 
that  he  had  lost  her  and  soon  was  to  lose  even  sight 
of  her  form.  He  resorted  to  the  commonplace. 

"  You  —  cannot  travel  —  without  means." 

A  smile  infinitely  sad  crept  into  her  eyes.  Even 
in  this  moment  the  paramount  thought  was  upper- 
most. 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  not 
need  overmuch  —  I  never  knew  until  recently  how 
really  little  one  can  subsist  on  —  and  I  shall  have 
more  than  enough  for  Hannah  and  myself.  Have 
you  forgotten  the  very  comfortable  income  left  me 
five  years  ago  by  my  mother's  single  brother?  " 

He  had  quite  forgotten  it,  and  his  start  of  surprise 
was  her  answer.  Even  this  tie  —  this  need  of  her 
for  him  —  was  severed. 

He  looked  around  him  in  a  blind,  unthinking  way, 
without  seeing  anything.  Then  his  vision  cleared, 
and  he  saw  himself  in  these  grounds  —  alone.  He 
saw  himself  in  the  big  wainscoted  library  and  in  the 
dining-room  at  his  meals  —  alone  —  driving  out 
with  Willis,  perhaps,  but  still  —  alone  !  How  the 
ghosts  would  walk  and  follow  him!  .  .  . 

156 


THE   SANCTUARY 


Then  he  turned  on  her  fiercely,  with  the  instinct 
of  a  wounded  animal  to  retaliate  upon  him.  He 
forgot  the  years  when  Blair  had  filled  his  life  — 
when  he  had  had  time  to  give  her  from  the  building 
of  his  wealth  —  forgot  his  need  of  her  —  his  tie  with 
Mary  Blair. 

"  As  you  please,"  he  said  coldly,  and  his  face 
looked  as  it  had  on  the  day  he  had  killed  the  Labor 
Bill.  "  Go  when  you  are  strong  enough  —  when 
Lorimer  says  it  is  safe  —  I  have  no  doubt  that  Han- 
nah is  to  be  trusted,  but  you  need  not  suppose  I 
shall  live  at  the  Anchorage  —  alone." 

He  looked  at  her  quite  steadily,  and  she  had  never 
known  until  then  how  merciless  his  eyes  could  be. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  understand  you,"  she  said,  and 
she  tried  to  keep  her  voice  from  trembling. 

He  heard  the  trembling  and  he  was  glad  — 
fiercely  glad  —  and  because  the  instinct  of  the  pri- 
meval was  uppermost,  with  its  gloating  desire  to 
wound  —  he  forgot  Lorimer's  warnings  and  the 
whiteness  of  the  emaciated  face  before  him  —  the 
face  of  Blair  and  the  face  of  Blair's  mother  that  had 
haunted  him  of  late. 

"  It  is  quite  plain.  You  go  your  way  —  with  your 
money.  I  go  my  way  —  with  mine.  I  shall  buy  me 
—  if  I  wish  it  —  pleasures  and  diversions  sometimes 
called  dissipations.  Later  it  shall  buy  me  —  a  wife 
for  my  home." 

The  hot  color  swept  over  her  face  —  then  as  sud- 
denly receded. 

"  First  —  if  you  wish  it  —  you  would  dishonor 

157 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

my  mother's  name,  and  later  put  another  woman  in 
her  place?  " 

"  Just  that  —  but  subject  to  my  will,  my  pleas- 
ure, my  caprice,  my  power.  I  shall  use  that  power 
as  I  have  never  used  it  —  until  my  last  breath  —  and 
I  shall  die  cursing  the  fate  that  takes  it  from  me. 
Do  you  understand  ?  "  He  drew  down  his  mouth  a 
little.  Fascinated,  she  watched  his  face. 

"  I  hear,"  she  said  at  length,  "  but  you  cannot 
expect  me  to  understand." 

He  laughed  disagreeably  and  turning,  walked 
away.  Dimly  he  was  conscious  that  hours  later  in 
the  library  the  ghosts  would  come  again,  but  just 
now  he  did  not  care.  The  instinct  to  crush  was  on 
him.  Had  he  looked  back  —  had  he  once  hesi- 
tated — 

Five  minutes  later,  when  Brewster  and  the  nurse 
came  to  carry  her  upstairs,  they  found  her  quite  un- 
conscious in  the  long  chair,  her  hand  pressed  to  her 
throat  —  the  sapphire  gleaming  in  the  sun. 


XVI. 

MORE  colorless  than  the  face  he  had  left  up- 
stairs was  that  of  Martin,  whom  Lorimer 
encountered  as  he  was  leaving  three  hours 
later.  The  physician  looked  at  the  Scotchman 
searchingly  and  not  without  suspicion. 

"She  is  better,"  he  said  briefly;  "it  looks  as 
though  she  had  had  a  shock.  I  do  not  understand  it. 
She  was  doing  well.  I  have  left  orders  that  the 
nurse  watch  her  more  closely.  I  do  not  look  for  any 
serious  results  —  but  it  has  been  a  setback  —  and 
she  hasn't  strength  for  setbacks." 

"  You  are  coming  again,  to-night?  " 

Lorimer  puckered  up  his  lips  thoughtfully. 

"  There  shouldn't  be  any  need  for  that,"  he  said, 
"  she  is  sleeping  now,  and  when  she  awakens  the 
nurse  will  telephone  me  how  she  is.  If  she's  as  well 
as  I  believe  she  will  be,  I'm  planning  to  hear  Hector 
Stone  speak  to-night  before  the  National  Federa- 
tion." 

"  I  had  not  heard,"  said  the  Scotchman  slowly. 

"  That  isn't  the  fault  of  the  press,"  said  Lorimer 
tartly.  "  It's  been  in  big  type  for  three  days.  It's 
considered  rather  an  honor  to  be  called  to  speak  be- 
fore the  Federation.  Stone  is  the  youngest  man 
they  have  ever  asked." 

159 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  Indeed !  "    The  Scotchman's  throat  seemed  dry. 

"  He's  a  big  man  —  Hector,"  said  Lorimer,  "  big 
in  frame  and  heart  and  brain.  He's  the  kind  of  man 
this  country  needs  just  now.  I've  known  him  since 
he  first  wore  kilts,  and  John  Stone  and  I  used  to  talk 
of  him  and  predict  great  things  for  him.  When 
John  Stone  died  he  left  his  millions  unreservedly  to 
him.  That  uncle  was  something  of  a  connoisseur 
in  men  and  he  knew  Hector's  caliber  as  he  knew 
his  own." 

"  What's  his  subject  ?  "  It  seemed  to  Martin  that 
he  asked  against  his  will. 

Lorimer  laughed  a  little. 

"  Brotherhood,"  he  said  briefly.  "  Rather  a  vague 
subject  or  a  Utopian  dream  in  this  era  of  warring 
factors." 

He  picked  up  his  hat  from  the  settle  in  the  hall. 

"  Nothing  more  to  excite  that  daughter  of  yours," 
he  said.  "  Mind  —  or  I'll  give  up  the  case."  He 
looked  at  the  Scotchman  again  in  a  critical  way  and 
opened  the  door  into  the  courtyard. 

Martin  went  back  to  the  ghost-haunted  library 
and  picked  up  a  financial  journal  and  tried  to  read. 
His  fears  for  Blair's  safety  had  been  stilled  by 
Lorimer's  reassuring  words,  and  the  anger  of  the 
morning  that  had  flamed  at  so  high  a  heat  had  set- 
tled into  a  dull  glow  of  defiance  and  resentment. 
But  he  was  restless  and  he  could  not  keep  his  mind 
on  the  rise  and  fall  of  stocks.  The  all-absorbing 
passion  of  his  life  —  self-aggrandizement  —  to-day 
failed  to  hold  him  and  his  wandering  attention.  He 

1 60 


THE   SANCTUARY 


pulled  the  morning  paper  toward  him.  It  had  never 
been  unfolded.  Of  late  the  comments  in  the  papers 
regarding  himself  were  things  rather  to  be  avoided. 
On  the  first  sheet  in  big  type  was  a  column  and  a 
half  on  the  Federation  meeting  that  evening  and  the 
coming  speech  of  Stone.  There  was  an  editorial 
on  the  same  subject.  He  pushed  the  paper  from 
him  with  an  impatient  gesture.  The  press  —  the 
world  —  or  was  it  himself  ?  —  was  going  mad. 

At  half  past  seven  that  night,  he  got  into  his  car 
and  briefly  ordered  Willis  to  drivei  to  the  Federation 
Hall.  A  few  moments  before  eight  he  entered  with 
the  crowd  —  a  soft  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes  — 
and  he  slipped  into  a  seat  in  the  extreme  rear  of  the 
hall.  He  chose  it  because  of  the  shadow  cast  by  a 
near-by  gallery  column.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
gone  out  publicly  since  the  mill  disaster.  He  smiled 
grimly  as  he  sat  in  the  shadow  and  waited.  Some- 
thing had  changed  —  was  it  himself  or  the  world's 
judgment  of  him  —  that  had  made  him,  who  once 
had  been  a  prominent  figure  in  the  world,  grateful 
for  the  shadow  that  hid  him.  He  did  not  analyze 
the  impulse  that  had  led  him  here  to-night.  It  might 
have  been  curiosity  or  the  desire  to  get  away  from 
the  ghosts. 

From  the  shadow  he  watched  the  hall  rapidly  fill- 
ing up,  realizing  that  he  had  come  none  too  soon  in 
order  to  be  seated.  The  place  was  crowded.  Be- 
hind him,  men  and  even  women  were  standing  three 
rows  deep.  He  hardly  knew  what  he  had  expected, 
—  perhaps  a  gathering  of  working  men  or  those  of 

161 


3%  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

the  middle  class  —  but  he  had  not  looked  for  the 
faces  and  the  kind  of  people  he  saw  here  to-night. 
Here  and  there  in  patches  he  saw  men  and  women 
of  the  working  class.  Two  rows  ahead  of  him  he 
recognized  with  a  start,  a  young  clerk  that  assisted 
Jenkins  in  his  office;  but  for  the  most  part  the 
clothes  —  the  faces  —  the  cultivated  voices  that 
reached  him  were  those  of  men  and  women  in  the 
upper  strata  of  society.  So  Stone  drew  his  own 
around  him  still,  as  well  as  the  toilers  of  the  under- 
world. 

In  a  few  minutes  Stone  and  the  President  of  the 
Federation  came  on  the  platform.  If  he  had  been 
surprised  before,  he  was  startled  now  at  the  burst  of 
applause  that  greeted  their  appearance.  Waiting  for 
it  to  subside,  he  had  a  chance  to  study  the  faces  of 
the  men  on  the  platform.  The  President  was  a  man 
whose  name  was  known  throughout  the  country, 
who,  for  his  work  civic  and  scientific,  had  been  deco- 
rated abroad.  Stone  looked  unusually  young  beside 
his  lined  and  venerable  face.  In  a  few  words  —  as 
eloquent  as  they  were  simple  —  he  introduced  the 
younger  man  and  then  sat  down. 

Very  slowly  —  very  easily  —  Stone  came  forward 
and  stood  facing  the  waiting  throng,  one  hand  rest- 
ing on  a  small  table  near  by.  At  his  approach  the 
applause  began  again.  It  was  his  first  appearance 
since  the  mill  disaster  —  since  his  identity  with 
Joe  Blackburn  had  become  known  —  since  he  had 
been  at,  or  addressed,  any  public  gathering.  He  had 
left  them  —  the  men  and  women  of  his  own  world 

162 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

and  the  men  and  women  of  the  under  world  in  which 
for  so  long  he  had  worked  unknown  —  strong,  with 
the  vigor  of  health,  physical  and  mental  —  alert  in 
movement  —  forcible  in  walk,  a  face  naturally 
thoughtful,  unmarked.  He  stood  before  them  to- 
night and  looked  over  that  vast  sea  of  faces  —  a 
man  thinner  for  weeks  of  physical  suffering  —  move- 
ments slower  —  the  very  turn  of  his  head  less  alert, 
and  bearing  on  his  left  cheek  the  sign  of  his  life's 
devotion  —  the  long  and  jagged  scar.  The  pity  of 
it  —  of  the  blighting  mark  that  would  never  leave 
his  face,  and  of  the  way  in  which  that  scar  had  been 
won  —  struck  a  sudden  spontaneous  chord  in  his 
waiting  audience,  and  the  applause  ceased  and  gave 
way  to  a  low  murmur  in  which  once  Martin  caught 
his  own  name. 

As  though  realizing  the  ground  was  dangerous, 
and  as  if  impatient  of  the  pity  and  the  sympathy, 
Stone  took  a  step  forward,  raised  his  hand  for 
silence  and  commenced  to  speak. 

He  talked  for  an  hour,  and  for  an  hour  they  hung 
upon  his  words  —  the  tones  of  his  voice  —  his  few 
gestures.  They  accorded  him  the  greatest  compli- 
ment an  orator  can  desire  or  know  —  an  attention 
so  fixed  as  to  leave  no  room  for  comment  or  ap- 
plause. At  first  Martin  heeded  little  that  he  said. 
He  was  held  astounded  by  a  charm  he  could  not 
have  analyzed  if  he  had  desired  —  the  charm  that 
had  held  him  months  ago  when  Stone  had  first 
called  at  The  Anchorage  to  plead  for  the  safety  of 
the  men.  How  had  he  ever  resisted  him  —  this 

163 


THE   SANCTUARY 


man  now  holding  them  so  ?  And  he  —  Martin  — 
through  Jenkins  —  had  doled  out  to  him  each  week 
for  months  that  pittance  in  the  pay  envelope.  .  .  . 
He  could  hear  the  voice  —  well  modulated,  culti- 
vated, penetrating  —  in  every  inflection,  that  strange 
nameless  charrn.  ...  At  first  the  words  of  the 
speaker  made  little  impression  on  him  ;  then  by  de- 
grees he  became  conscious  of  something  of  their 
import,  and  towards  the  end  he  became  keenly  atten- 
tive, the  slow  deep  color  mounting  to  his  head  as 
he  sat  and  listened.  .  .  .  Distinctly  now  Stone's 
words  oame  to  him. 

"  Long  ago,  when  I  was  a  boy,  I  heard  a  great 
speaker  say  that  Brotherhood  is  not  Equality.  I 
believe  these  words  and  the  thought  behind  them 
helped  to  shape  my  life.  Have  any  of  you  seriously 
considered  just  what  equality  would  mean?  You 
who  would  revolutionize  society  by  the  discontent  of 
Socialism,  how  would  you  bridge  the  vast  chasm  of 
the  intellect  of  a  Socrates  and  the  beggar  in  the 
Athenian  streets;  how  join  -the  aspirations  of  a 
Spinoza  with  the  sordid  passions  of  the  degenerate 
and  the  criminal?  You  answer,  perhaps,  by  educa- 
tion for  all  —  by  substituting  reformatories  for  the 
present  degrading  penal  system  —  by  building  pub- 
lic baths  and  playgrounds  —  all  excellent,  I  admit, 
and  all  admirable  and  necessary  if  we  are  to  keep 
up  with  the  march  of  progress,  and  all  possessing, 
whether  we  are  conscious  of  it  or  not,  the  germ 
of  selfless  service  —  the  foundation  on  which  all 
brotherhood  is  built.  But  brotherhood  implies  more 

164 


*ft  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

than  this.  It  is  to  man  what  physics  is  to  the  world 
of  natural  force;  what  chemistry  is  to  the  world 
of  atoms  —  the  one  unfailing  Law.  Do  you  think 
huge  walls  and  stately  gardens  and  perfectly  ap- 
pointed homes,  sufficient  safeguard  against  the  dis- 
eases your  indifference  allows  to  breed  and  fester 
in  the  slums  ?  You  have  no  surety  against  the  bac- 
teria of  science  —  your  life  is  one  with  the  life  of 
the  lowest,  and  as  our  perfect  health  demands  pure 
circulation  in  every  part,  you  cannot,  in  your  arro- 
gance and  pride  and  self-aloofment,  say  you  are 
pure  or  healthy  or  have  strength,  while  you  allow 
•the  blood  that  contains  impurity  and  disease  and 
weakness  to  be  poured  from  the  great  heart  of 
humanity.  Brotherhood  is  something  more  than  a 
name  and  something  more  than  the  deeding  of  a 
big  stretch  of  ground  by  the  rich  man  for  the  public 
use  —  more  than  the  endowing  of  an  institution,  or 
the  building  of  libraries  where  the  poor  can  read. 
Did  the  irony  of  it  ever  come  to  you  —  the  useless- 
ness  of  libraries  to  some  of  the  men  who  work  in 
steel  twelve  and  fourteen  hours  out  of  every  twenty- 
four  —  sometimes  seven  days  in  the  week  —  often 
at  a  twenty-four  hour  stretch?  Can  you  take  that 
in?  Can  you  conceive  the  strain  and  the  fatigue 
and  the  hopelessness  of  such  men?  Can  you  blame 
them  —  who  know  no  home  life  —  for  lack  of  self- 
improvement  and  education?  Can  you  judge  them 
because  as  a  man  drowning  they  grasp  the  nearest 
object  at  hand,  not  stopping  in  their  terror  and 
despair  to  question  its  stability?  Have  you  the 

165 


*ft  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

reason  or  the  heart  to  censure  them  because  they 
turn  to  the  only  helps  they  see  —  socialism  and 
strikes  and  revolution?  Have  you  ever  read  or 
even  heard  the  story  of  the  children  who  make 
paper  boxes  day  and  night,  night  and  day  —  to 
whom  all  time  is  alike — to  whom  Christmas  is 
unknown?  Do  you  know  that  in  this  country  live 
men  who  build  their  pile  of  gold  on  their  feeble 
strength  ?  Could  I  convince  you  that  to-day  —  in 
this  Free  America  —  white  women  are  bought  and 
sold  into  a  slavery  of  shame  —  to  which,  in  com- 
parison, the  bonds  of  the  black  man  many  of  you 
fought  to  abolish  fifty  years  ago  are  as  nothing? 
Would  you  believe  me  if  I  showed  you  the  deeds 
and  rent  lists  and  mortgages  on  such  houses  that 
are  a  source  of  income  to  one  of  the  richest  and 
most  fashionable  churches  in  the  New  World  to- 
day—  dedicated  to  the  name  of  Christ?  And  lest 
you  think  my  sympathies  are  only  with  the  labor 
class,  and  that  I  secretly  uphold  socialism,  let  me 
try  to  show  you  another  side  for  the  need  of  broth- 
erhood. It  will  come  as  a  new  thought,  perhaps, 
to  some  of  you,  and  because  it  is  the  hardest  lesson 
of  brotherhood  to  learn,  it  is  the  last  —  tolerance 
towards  those  in  high  places,  who  allow  such  things 
to  exist.  Let  me  cite  a  concrete  case  to  you.  I 
once  knew  a  man  in  the  far  West  who  had  amassed 
a  fortune  —  a  fortune  tainted  with  the  blood  and 
tears  of  weaker  men  and  women  —  a  fortune  so 
vast  that  the  yearly  income  counted  up  into  the 
millions.  With  a  fraction  of  the  total  he  bought 

166 


THE   SANCTUARY 


himself  great  tracts  of  land  and  built  one  palace 
in  the  West  —  another  in  the  East.  A  great  army 
of  workmen  and  farmers  and  secretaries  were  em- 
ployed —  few  of  whom  he  ever  saw  and  fewer  still 
that  he  knew  by  name.  And  one  night  a  friend 
asked  him  why  he  had  never  married.  '  I  have 
never  had  the  time,'  he  said,  '  to  give  thought  to 
such  things  —  I  was  too  busy  making  money  in  the 
early  years  to  think  of  making  a  home,  now  I  do 
not  care  to.'  A  little  later  I  met  him  and  some  ques- 
tion of  art  came  up.  '  I  do  not  know,'  he  said,  '  any- 
thing about  it.  I  have  been  too  busy  all  these  years 
for  art  or  travel.  I  do  not  care  for  such  things. 
There  is  only  one  thing  that  I  do  care  for  —  work.' 
And  each  year  his  millions,  like  a  snowball  rolling, 
gather  more,  and  his  great  palaces  are  filled  with 
pictures  chosen  by  other  men  of  taste  and  knowl- 
edge, and  which  he  cannot  appreciate.  His  stables 
and  garages  are  stocked  with  thoroughbreds  and 
cars  of  the  latest  model  that  it  would  take  a  man 
of  leisure  weeks  to  exercise  and  enjoy.  .  .  .  You 
give  freely  of  your  sympathy  to  the  starving  and 
the  poor,  the  diseased  and  the  blind,  and  you  give 
of  your  alms  as  well.  Have  you  no  coin  of  pity  — 
no  thought  of  sympathy  to  share  with  a  man  like 
this,  who  is  spiritually  starved  and  poverty  stricken, 
on  whose  great  powerful  mind  grows  an  ulcer  worse 
than  those  on  men's  bodies  in  the  slums  —  who  is 
blind  to  the  beauties  in  nature  and  in  art  —  who  has 
had  '  no  time  for  woman's  love,  or  to  know  the 
treasures  gold  cannot  buy  in  the  heart  of  a  little 

167 


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child?  Is  there  no  brotherhood  needed  here?  .  .  . 
How  will  you  —  men  and  women  of  a  broader  out- 
look —  meet  the  issue  ? 

"  Do  you  look  for  your  government  to  solve  such 
problems  when  your  legislatures  are  blackened  and 
dishonored  by  bribery  and  bossism  ?  No  amount  of 
private  charities  —  no  matter  how  great  they  are 
nor  how  big  the  need  they  fill  —  will  ever  bridge 
the  gulf.  Not  until  brotherhood  becomes  a  living 
reality  to  every  employer  in  the  country,  as  well 
as  to  the  employed  —  until  the  elder  brothers,  with 
their  more  developed  brains,  their  larger  reasoning 
faculties,  their  greater  experience,  feel  their  re- 
sponsibility to  every  younger  brother  in  the  family 
of  the  state  as  they  do  to  the  younger  members  of 
their  own  hearts  and  homes  —  not  until  those 
younger  brothers,  with  their  less  matured  minds, 
less  controlled  and  balanced  natures,  are  willing  to 
learn  the  lessons  of  service  and  obedience  to  the 
elder  ones  —  will  the  religious,  economic  and  civic 
problems  before  us  to-day,  be  solved.  You  may 
call  it  cooperation  if  you  will  —  the  principle  is  the 
same  —  but  if  you  want  and  expect  a  sane,  safe 
policy  of  advancement,  you  will  begin  to  work  out 
this  idea  of  brotherhood  in  your  homes,  your  state, 
your  land.  Do  you  say  it  is  a  phantom  that  I  fol- 
low —  a  dream  I  dream  —  a  structure  that  I  rear 
on  sand?  I  tell  you  it  is  the  one  enduring  thing 
of  all  the  years  —  that  love  of  brotherhood  which 
will  alone  suffice;  that  will  satisfy  our  intellect  — 
that  will  satisfy  the  heart.  Then  will  weakness  be 

1  68 


*ft  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

turned  to  strength;  failures  to  success;  misery  — 
and  even  sin  —  transformed  to  good;  despair  and 
warring  hate  to  love,  as  the  Spirit  of  the  Coming 
Race  of  Man  guides  all  that  man  may  think  and 
do  and  feel  until  all  things  that  work  together  for 
good,  converge  at  the  Center  of  the  Infinite." 

From  the  light  and  warmth  of  Federation  Hall 
Martin  went  out  into  the  darkness  and  chill  of  night 
and  stepped  into  his  car. 

"  Home,"  he  said,  and  he  did  not  recognize  his 
own  voice. 


169 


XVII. 

ONE  afternoon  two  weeks  later  Blair  Martin 
was  seated  in  her  little  tea-room.  It  was 
there  that  Stone's  card  was  brought  to  her. 

When  he  entered  he  found  her  in  a  chair  by  the 
window,  which  was  open,  allowing  the  late  spring 
breeze  to  enter.  She  leaned  forward  a  little  with 
extended  hand. 

He  took  it  and  for  a  moment  looked  down  upon 
it  in  silence  and  then  raised  his  eyes  to  her  face. 

"  You  are  growing  stronger?  " 

"  Every  day  a  little  stronger,  thank  you.  I  walk 
some  now,  and  in  three  weeks  I  sail  for  Europe," 
she  answered. 

"  So  Lorimer  tells  me.  Are  you  fit  for  such  a 
trip  so  soon?  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a  gesture  of  in- 
difference. 

"  I  suppose  so."  Then,  her  voice  a  little  lower, 
"  I  can't  gain  strength  very  rapidly  —  here.  A 
change  may  help  me." 

He  sat  down  on  a  chair  near  her  and  looked  out 
of  the  open  window  across  the  wide  sweep  of  lawn 
thoughtfully. 

"  It  is  almost  summer  now,"  he  said  after  a  while 
irrelevantly.  "  When  —  I  was  last  by  this  window 
here  the  violets  had  not  come." 

170 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

For  an  instant  a  strange  light  flickered  in  her 
eyes. 

"  The  violets  have  come  and  —  gone,"  she  said, 
"  since  I  saw  you  last." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  and  he  did  not  remove  his 
eyes  from  the  stretch  of  lawn,  "  it  is  the  law  of 
nature  as  it  is  of  life,  —  life  and  death  and  again 
—  life." 

"  There  are  some  things  that  will  never  live  for 
me  again,"  she  said.  "  It  is  because  of  them  I  am 
going  away." 

His  eyes  came  back  to  her  and  gravely  met  her 
own. 

"  Changes  are  good  for  us,"  he  said.  "  We  all 
need  them  sometimes  —  especially  when  the  body 
is  weak  and  the  brain  refuses  to  readjust  things  for 
us  —  but  there  are  some  things  we  can  never  get 
away  from  —  some  things  that  are  as  close  to  us 
in  the  lands  of  distant  Africa,  as  they  are  here  at 
home." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  found  the  task  that 
Lorimer  had  imposed  upon  him  becoming  more 
and  more  difficult. 

"  Your  father  —  what  will  he  do  without  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  the  indifferent  note 
stealing  into  her  voice  again.  "  I  do  not  believe  I 
very  much  —  care." 

"  He  will  miss  you." 

"  I  hardly  think  so,"  she  said,  her  face  flushing 
a  little.  "  He  —  he  will  find  other  —  things  to 
interest  him." 

171 


*ft  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

"  He  is  well?" 

"  I  suppose  so."  She  spoke  slowly,  and  for  a 
moment  she  looked  out  of  the  window.  "  I  have  not 
seen  him  for  over  a  week.  He  left  last  night  to  look 
at  the  stock  farm  in  the  western  part  of  the  state." 

She  began  to  trace  an  intricate  pattern  on  the 
broad  arm  of  her  wicker  chair.  Suddenly  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

"  I  suppose  I  might  pretend  not  to  understand 
you  —  but  I  won't,"  she  said.  "  You  have  come 
to  plead  for  him  —  either  that  I  will  not  leave  him 
just  now,  or  if  I  go,  part  —  differently.  I  cannot 
do  either  and  be  true  to  myself.  I  know  what  you 
would  say  —  what  Doctor  Lorimer  has  said  —  and 
I  read  the  speech  in  full  that  you  made  the  other 
night.  I  simply  have  not  reached  that  height.  I 
do  not  think  it  is  so  much  that  I  am  judging  him 
or  —  or  all  the  wrong  that  he  has  done  —  the  lives 
he  has  wrecked  —  the  tears  he  has  made  flow  — 
that  scar  you  bear  —  but  I  cannot  breath  the  at- 
mosphere and  —  live" 

He  sat  regarding  her  with  his  grave  eyes  full  of 
understanding,  and  a  great  pity  and  a  great  love  for 
her  rose  in  his  heart  as  he  looked. 

"  Some  day  you  will  live  to  serve,"  he  said,  "  as 
once  you  lived  to  love.  It  is  only  in  service  that 
the  broken  ideals  and  the  lost  faiths  can  be  for- 
given and  —  forgotten.  Sometime  when  you  grow 
stronger  and  the  other  places  pall  upon  you,  go  to 
the  Island  of  the  Angels.  Pierre  Lamore  will  help 
you." 

172 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

"  I  will,"  she  said,  and  she  did  not  know  all  that 
was  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"  That  is  good.  I  will  write  to  him,  and  no  mat- 
ter whether  it  is  soon  or  late  you  will  find  him, 
waiting." 

He  rose  suddenly.  He  could  not  trust  himself 
longer.  He  had  seen  the  look  in  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

For  a  barely  perceptible  instant  he  leaned  over 
her  hand  in  parting. 

"  There  have  been  —  many;"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "  who  have  been  anxious  over  you." 

She  stared  past  him  and  the  hand  he  held  trem- 
bled a  little.  A  slow  flush  mounted  to  her  white 
face. 

"  The  physicians  and  the  nurses  still  wonder  why 
I  lived.  I  scarcely  know  myself.  Something  —  " 
She  broke  off.  He  dropped  her  hand  quickly  and 
he  did  not  question  her. 

From  a  window,  and  screened  by  the  curtain, 
she  watched  him  enter  his  car  in  the  courtyard. 
She  wondered  suddenly  why  she  had  not  noticed 
how  thin  and  haggard  was  his  face  —  how  glaringly 
cruel  was  the  scar.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  his 
hand  upon  the  steering  wheel,  as  though  he  would 
return.  Then  she  saw  his  lips  close  tightly  —  al- 
most defiantly  —  and  an  instant  later  the  great 
machine  began  to  move.  Not  once  had  he  looked 
back. 

Three  weeks  later  she  stood  on  the  deck  of  the 
great  Lutania,  quite  alone,  watching  the  other  pas- 


*»  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

sengers  come  aboard.  Below,  Hannah  was  unpack- 
ing the  things  necessary  for  the  five  days'  voyage. 
She  scarcely  heeded  the  hurrying  life  around  her. 
Once  she  thought  of  her  father.  He  had  not  been 
at  The  Anchorage  when  she  left.  There  had  been 
only  old  Brewster  and  Thomas  and  the  other  serv- 
ants to  see  them  off  and  close  the  door  of  The  An- 
chorage behind  Hannah  and  herself.  Half  hope- 
fully, half  fearingly,  she  had  waited  in  those  last 
weeks  for  some  word  from  Hector  Stone,  but  the 
days  had  come  and  gone,  bringing  the  sailing  date 
nearer.  The  railroad  trip  to  New  York  had  been 
made,  and  it  was  as  if  they  were  strangers  to  each 
other.  It  was  not  until  she  had  reached  the  steamer 
and  had  entered  the  big  saloon  with  its  countless 
small  dining-tables,  that  she  found  at  the  place  re- 
served for  her  a  box  of  fresh  and  most  exquisite 
violets.  They  bore  neither  name  of  florist  or  of 
sender  —  but  with  a  quick  heart-throb  of  surprise 
she  bent  her  face  above  them,  upon  her  lips,  the 
first  in  months,  a  whispered  prayer.  How  he  had 
gotten  them  —  long  out  of  season  —  she  neither 
knew  nor  cared,  but  that  they  came  from  him  — 
his  one  gift  to  her  —  she  did  not  question,  and  they 
were  with  her  now. 

Suddenly,  as  though  her  very  thought  of  him 
had  called  him  across  the  miles,  he  stood  before  her 
—  that  grave  smile  of  welcome  on  his  face.  She 
stared  at  him  in  silence  —  the  faint  flush  of  return- 
ing strength  leaving  her  face  —  and  then  she  spoke 
-  questioningly. 

174 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

"You?" 

"  Quite  real,"  he  answered.  "  I  fancied  it  might 
be  hard  leaving  the  country  with  no  one  to  see  you 
off."  He  paused,  and  added,  "  I  could  not  let  you 
go  without  some  word." 

"  It  was  good  of  you,"  she  said,  "I  —  I  shall  not 
forget  your  kindness." 

He  hardly  seemed  to  hear  her.  He  spoke  hur- 
riedly and  without  his  usual  calm. 

"  I  was  delayed  in  a  bad  block.  It  seemed  at  one 
time  as  though  there  would  be  no  familiar  face  to 
watch  you  from  the  pier.  It  is  almost  sailing  time." 

Something  of  his  agitation  came  to  her. 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  "  already  some  are  going 
ashore."  She  caught  her  breath  quickly  and  laid 
her  gloved  hand  over  the  flowers  she  wore. 

"How  long  will  you  be  gone?"  he  questioned, 
and  his  eyes  were  as  the  eyes  of  one  without  hope. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "I  —  don't  —  know ! 
There  is  nothing  to  keep  me  in  America  —  much  to 
take  me  away."  She  looked  past  him.  "  And 
you?" 

"  I  go  to  —  Montreal  to-night,"  he  said,  and  his 
face  was  colorless.  "  They  have  sent  for  me.  She 
—  seems  almost  —  almost  —  well  —  again."  The 
words  came  to  her  as  from  a  long  distance. 

"  What  will  you  do  ?  "  she  asked  him  after  what 
seemed  an  interminable  silence,  and  neither  of  them 
wondered  at  or  questioned  her  right  to  speak  so. 

"  My  duty  —  as  I  see  it,"  he  said.  "  What  right 
have  I  to  hold  up  ideals  and  standards  of  life  to 

175 


THE   SANCTUARY 


others  if  —  in  my  extremity  —  I  am  not  willing  to 
strive  for  them  myself  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  and  it  was  as  if  a  bridge  had 
suddenly  been  thrown  across  the  impassable  gulf 
that  parted  them.  "  I  always  knew,"  she  said  as 
his  eyes  held  her  own,  "  I  always  knew,"  she  re- 
peated. "I  —  never  doubted." 

Across  that  phantom  bridge  that  for  a  moment 
Love  had  built  for  them,  they  walked  to  meet  each 
other.  For  them  the  outer  world  had  ceased.  His 
eyes  held  her  still.  Nearer  they  came,  and  Love, 
merciful,  held  the  phantom  bridge  together  over 
the  abyss.  For  the  first  time  he  called  her  to  her 
face  —  and  always  thereafter  —  by  her  name. 

"  Blair  —  some  word  —  some  token  —  for  the 
barren  years  !  " 

In  spirit,  across  that  frail  phantom  bridge,  she 
moved  to  him  still  closer.  In  reality  she  stood  quite 
still.  With  eyes  that  suddenly  cleared  she  looked 
upon  the  scar. 

"  God  bless  you,  Joe,"  she  said,  conscious  that 
the  warning  whistle  was  sounding  —  that  the  phan- 
tom bridge  was  crumbling  to  its  fall,  "  Joe  —  Joe 
Blackie" 

He  watched  her  until  her  face  became  a  blur 
across  the  widening  space  between  them,  and  he 
waited  until  the  great  ship  was  a  distant  speck  upon 
the  waters.  Then  he  turned  away  —  a  great  sorrow 
—  a  great  joy  —  living  in  his  heart. 

END   OF    BOOK    ONE. 

176 


BOOK  TWO 
THE  INNER  COURT 


I. 

FOR  months,  followed  by  the  patient  Hannah, 
Blair  Martin  wandered  over  Europe,  in  her 
eyes  the  look  of  one  searching  for  the  unat- 
tainable. With  the  fatigue  born  more  of  the  weari- 
ness of  the  spirit  than  of  the  body,  she  stopped  at 
many  places  searching  out  the  unusual  to  excite  her 
waning  interest,  for  a  while  half  hopefully  linger- 
ing and  then  ordering  Hannah  to  pack  again,  when 
they  would  move  on.  The  places  that  she  saw  and 
the  memories  that  they  left  were  never  very  clearly 
impressed  upon  her  brain.  Now  and  then  she  ran 
across  acquaintances  whom  she  joined  for  a  little 
while  —  more  to  get  away  from  herself  than  be- 
cause she  cared  for  them  —  but  more  often  she 
sought  out  her  paths  alone.  She  grew  to  lean  on 
the  old  serving  woman  as  she  had  never  leaned  on 
any  one  since  her  mother  had  died,  and  Hannah, 
close-mouthed  and  watchful-eyed,  followed  her  in 
anxious  wonder  and  never  seemed  to  know  fatigue. 
If  Blair  Martin  grew  restless  —  and  the  hours  were 
many  —  Hannah's  nature  dwelt  in  deeper  calm;  if 
her  mistress  was  annoyed,  Hannah's  patience  only 
grew;  if  her  body  was  touched  by  some  passing  ill, 
Hannah  watched  day  and  night  with  maternal  care. 
But  Hannah,  as  shrewd  as  she  was  tender,  guessed 

179 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

something  of  the  secret  of  Blair  Martin,  and  for 
the  heart  sickness  and  the  soul  yearning,  her  homely 
knowledge  knew  no  cure. 

Thanks  to  a  constitution  inherited  from  Andrew 
Martin,  who  had  never  known  a  moment's  illness 
in  his  life,  Blair's  strength  returned  rapidly.  Much 
was  probably  due  to  the  open  life  she  lived  —  the 
fogs  of  London  or  the  storms  of  Austrian  moun- 
tains being  much  the  same  to  her  as  the  sunshine 
of  the  Latin  countries  that  she  visited.  London 
with  its  noise  and  hurry  jarred  her  as  did  gay  Paris 
with  its  sunshine,  and  Nice  and  Brussels.  She  only 
stayed  in  Brussels  a  day,  and  then  she  went  out  alone 
and  looked  on  the  high  stone  wall  and  the  gray 
buildings  where  she  had  been  at  school.  It  was  all 
quite  unchanged.  "  Would  that  I  were  there 
again !  "  she  thought  as  she  made  her  way  back 
to  the  hotel  and  feverishly  looked  up  time-tables 
for  Switzerland.  In  the  Alps  she  lingered  some 
six  months.  It  was  the  longest  stop  that  she  had 
made,  Hannah  remembered  gratefully,  and  daily 
she  waited  for  that  strange  look  to  lift  from  Blair 
Martin's  face.  Sometimes  she  would  steal  into 
Blair  Martin's  room  when  she  was  sleeping  the 
sleep  of  perfect  and  renewed  health,  and  would 
stand  looking  down  on  her  in  the  dim  light,  hoping 
that  on  that  mysterious  plane  of  sleep  the  look  might 
be  left  behind.  But  indelibly  it  seemed  stamped 
there,  and  Hannah  was  not  wise  enough  to  know 
it  had  been  left  by  the  die  of  life  that  gives  each 
human  face  the  value  that  it  should  bear.  Neither 

1 80 


V*  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

were  Hannah's  thoughts  acute  enough  to  follow 
those  of  the  mistress  whom  she  loved  and  served. 
Strange  thoughts,  long  thoughts,  they  were  that  fol- 
lowed her  to  the  realm  of  sleep.  Sometimes  they 
seemed  the  material  of  which  happier,  better  things 
are  built  —  sometimes  by  their  aid  she  walked  again 
across  that  mysterious  bridge  of  Love.  .  .  .  Then 
it  was  that  the  miles  became  as  nothing,  and  again 
Time,  merciful,  paused.  Dimly  she  was  conscious 
of  the  abyss  below,  but  above  them  hung  the  stars. 
Again  they  were  together.  .  .  .  There  came  a  time 
when  the  bridge  was  seen  and  felt  not  only  in  the 
world  of  sleep  but  in  the  outer  world  as  well.  Some- 
times she  saw  it  —  as  one  sees  a  vision  of  the  inner 
sense  —  and  as  something  quite  separate  and  dis- 
tinct from  her  own  consciousness.  Again  she  trod 
the  span  and  was  a  part  of  it,  and  then  the  vision 
was  a  vision  no  longer,  but  a  reality  she  knew  and 
felt  but  could  not  name.  It  never  came  at  her  bid- 
ding, but  she  grew  to  look  for  it  in  her  hours  of 
greatest  need  —  when  the  intricate  fabric  of  her 
life  seemed  a  raveling  thing  —  and  she  clung  to  the 
remembrance  of  it  desperately  in  the  long  days  that 
followed  in  its  wake.  Such  days  were  many,  for 
the  human  in  us  cannot  long  withstand  the  rarefied 
air  of  spiritual  heights,  and  the  descent  into  the 
things  of  earth  became  by  comparison  more  sordid 
and  more  hard.  The  woman  in  her  stood  groping 
blindly  at  the  door  of  happiness,  and  sometimes  it 
seemed  to  her  the  desire  for  that  happiness  became  a 
tangible  thing  of  strength,  and  she  used  to  wonder 

181 


THE   SANCTUARY 


dimly  why  the  bands  of  fate  that  bound  the  door 
did  not  give  way  before  it.  There  were  hours  when 
she  would  think  of  nothing  except  Stone,  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  others  when  she  fought  the  memory  of  his 
face  from  her,  and  others  still  when  another  \voman 

—  shadowy    and    wraith-like  —  would    appear    as 
though  to  demand  a  reckoning  from  her  hands.   She 
dwelt  on  this  shadowy  form  of  the  other  woman 
more  often  than  she  herself  was  aware,  and  she 
pictured  her  in  a  hundred  different  guises.    She  was 
short  —  were  not  all  women  of  French  blood  small  ? 

—  she  had  vivacious  ways.     Were  they  the  ways 
that  first  attracted  him,  she  wondered.     Perhaps  she 
might  be  tall  —  her  blood  might  not  be  all  French, 
and  had  not  Stone  once  said  he  admired  tall  women  ? 
Perhaps  she  had  beauty  —  he  cared  so  much  for 
beauty  in  all   forms  —  and  grace,  and  charm  she 
must  have  had  to  have  held  and  won  him  years  ago 
in  his  early  manhood.     She  wondered  if  she  held 
him  now  —  if  the  old  charm  was  hers  still.     When 
a  woman  had  lived  seven  years  in  a  place  like  the 
Hotel  des  Invalides,  what  could  life  hold  for  her 
again  ?    Who  could  emerge  from  such  a  place,  such 
a  night  of  mental  darkness,  with  grace  and  charm  ? 
Seven  years  !     She  used  to  say  it  over  to  herself 
sometimes  and  to  shut  her  eyes  as  though  to  pic- 
ture to  her  soul  the  darkness  that  had  once  de- 
scended on  this  other  woman  whom  she  did  not 
know  —  had  never  seen  —  but  with  whom  the  web 
of  her  life  was  woven  as  the  warp  is  woven  in  the 
woof.     An  instinct  that  she  never  had  defined,  but 

182 


THE   SANCTUARY 


which  rarely  failed  her,  told  her  in  such  hours  that 
one  day  they  would  meet,  and  Blair  Martin  in  her 
strength  found  herself  trembling  at  the  thought. 
It  seemed  to  her  she  could  not  look  on  her  —  this 
other  woman  —  and  live.  ...  In  the  long  months 
following  her  sailing  she  had  not  even  indirectly 
heard  of  Stone.  To  her  father  she  did  not  write, 
and  grimly  Andrew  Martin  had  held  to  the  silence 
and  refused  to  be  the  first  to  extend  the  palm  of 
peace.  Her  father  might  have  told  her  something 
—  perhaps.  Stone  himself  never  wrote  and  it  was 
as  if  a  great  gulf  had  swallowed  him  forever  from 
her  sight  and  hearing.  Then  came  days  when  she 
doubted  her  own  instinct  —  the  remembrance  of 
Stone's  parting  at  the  pier  —  and  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  phantom  bridge  still  spanned  for  her  by 
Love,  the  doubt  would  have  become  an  overwhelm- 
ing thing  and  crushed  her  life.  Sometimes  she 
walked  the  bridge  alone  and  stood  leaning  against 
its  frail  sides  without  fear,  peering  for  him  into 
the  abyss  below.  She  never  peered'  in  vain.  It  was 
as  if  by  the  strength  of  her  own  faith  she  drew  him 
to  her  and  once  more  they  faced  each  other  on  that 
frail  support.  ...  So  the  days  succeeded  days  and 
ran  into  weeks,  and,  unknown  to  her,  invisible 
forces  were  at  work  upon  her,  as  the  master,  un- 
known to  the  marble,  with  chisel  and  mallet  works 
at  the  unformed  block  until  it  is  a  perfect  thing. 

In  December  she  went  to  St.  Moritz  and  there 
lingered  some  six  weeks.  Gradually  the  warm  blood 
and  the  young  life  in  her  had  awakened  as  she  joined 

•83 


THE   SANCTUARY 


in  the  round  of  winter  sports  with  an  enthusiasm 
that  six  months  before  she  would  have  regarded  as 
impossible.  But  by  and  by  the  bob-sleighing  on  the 
Cresta,  and  the  great  skiing  contests  palled  upon 
her,  and  in  February  she  joined  friends  who  were 
going  southward  towards  the  French  border. 

The  little  irregular  oval-shaped  Republic  lying  in 
its  mountain  fastness  as  an  emerald  lies  in  a  casket 
of  whitest  hue,  had  taught  her  much  and  she  was 
grateful.  Health,  sealed  by  St.  Moritz  winter 
sports,  had  first  come  back  to  her,  she  sometimes 
thought,  when  in  the  summer  time  she  had  looked 
out  over  the  Alpine  meadows  with  their  wealth  of 
pansies  and  anemones,  the  bluest  of  forget-me-nots, 
and  the  pride  and  love  of  the  Swiss,  the  Alpine  rose. 
Later,  in  those  months  of  returning  strength  and 
increased  mentality,  she  had  grown  to  know  some- 
thing of  the  stern  perils  of  the  snow-capped  peaks 
where  the  edelweiss  grew;  and  that  in  the  nature 
of  the  Swiss,  as  in  the  nature  of  all  man,  loomed 
the  inaccessible  mountains  of  the  unattainable  and 
yawned  the  black  abyss  of  doubt,  untouched  by 
flower  or  light  —  that  in  realms  above  the  physical 
souls  were  sometimes  crushed  as  the  homes  and 
cattle  and  bodies  of  these  people  were  buried  be- 
neath the  vast  bulk  of  a  Grundlawine.  It  was  after 
she  had  left  the  table-land  of  Switzerland  for  the 
upland  regions,  dwelling  near  and  yet  immeasurably 
far  away  from  the  vast  peaks  of  the  never  ceasing 
snow,  that  there  was  brought  to  her  a  letter  in  an 
unknown  hand,  forwarded  by  her  bankers  in  Paris. 

184 


THE   SANCTUARY 


Letters  of  any  sort  were  a  rarity.     This  bore  the 
postmark  of  Marseilles. 

She  turned  it  curiously  in  her  hands  before  open- 
ing it.  The  writing  was  evidently  that  of  a  for- 
eigner but  bore  marks  of  culture  and  of  strength. 
She  opened  it  and  glanced  at  the  signature.  The 
color  receded  suddenly  from  her  face  and  then 
flamed  it  again.  She  put  the  letter  down  and  went 
and  stood  by  the  window,  looking  out  and  up  to 
those  mountains  of  eternal  calm.  By  and  by,  across 
the  patch  of  winter  sky,  a  cloud  mist  gathered  and 
reached  from  the  summit  of  the  high  peak  in  front 
to  the  summit  of  the  adjacent  one.  Motionless  she 
stood,  her  hand  up  to  her  throat.  The  Bridge  — 
the  Bridge  was  forming.  She  watched  it  as  Therese 
might  have  watched  the  visions  in  her  cell  —  in 
rapt  and  entranced  wonder.  Then  she  became  a 
part  of  it  —  she  walked  that  cloudlike  span,  alone 
and  unafraid,  knowing  he  would  come.  He  came 
and  now  she  heard  his  voice.  It  was  the  same 
months  back  that  had  said  its  partings  at  the  pier  — 
then  as  it  was  that  day  in  her  tea-room  at  home  when 
she  had  first  seen  him  after  her  long  fever.  "  Some- 
time when  you  grow  stronger  and  the  other  places 
pall  upon  you,  go  to  the  Island  of  the  Angels. 
Pierre  Lamore  will  help  you."  .  .  .  She  did  not 
answer  him,  she  remembered  afterwards,  but  she 
listened  and  she  looked.  .  .  .  The  look,  unknown 
to  her,  was  in  her  eyes  still  when  the  Dream  Bridge 
slowly  faded,  leaving  her  by  the  window  staring  at 
the  patch  of  winter  sky  between  the  two  great  sum- 

185 


THE   SANCTUARY 


mits,  while  the  silence  of  the  high  hills  closed  in 
around  her. 

The  Island  of  the  Angels  !  Pierre  Lamore  !  How 
was  it  she  had  forgotten?  How  was  it  she  had 
not  gone  before?  The  Island  of  the  Angels!  She 
said  it  over  and  it  brought  strange  solace  to  her 
heart.  It  called  her  as  did  Pierre  Lamore's  letter 
lying  on  the  table.  It  called  her  with  the  voice  of 
Stone  speaking  from  that  immeasurable  height, 
from  the  Bridge  of  Dreams. 

Unconsciously  she  held  out  her  arms  to  those 
vast  mountains  looming  up  before  her,  in  their  cold 
white  splendor. 

"  You  have  given  me  much  that  I  wanted  — 
taught  me  much  that  I  needed,  but  not  all  —  not  all  ! 
I  am  going  to  leave  you  for  the  Island.  There  I 
shall  find  peace." 


186 


n. 

THE  short  February  day  was  drawing  to  its 
close  as  Blair  Martin's  train  steamed  into 
the  great  Gare  St.  Charles,  and  Hannah  and 
herself  stepped  into  a  waiting  cab.  She  gave  the 
hotel  address  to  the  driver  in  French  as  marked  for 
its  accuracy  as  for  purity  of  pronunciation,  and 
Hannah  respectfully  stood  by,  bags  in  hand,  and 
listened,  wondering  where  her  mistress'  whim  would 
lead  her  next.  She  was  too  well  trained  in  service 
and  in  Blair  Martin's  moods  to  question  by  a  look 
or  word.  Blair  Martin  herself  said  nothing  as  she 
stared  out  of  the  cab  window.  She  had  not  been 
to  Marseilles  in  years  —  not  since  she  had  been  a 
girl  abroad  at  school.  Once  on  an  Easter  holiday 
her  mother,  who  was  wintering  in  Italy,  had  gone 
to  Brussels  and  brought  her  here.  The  broad  Bou- 
levard, planted  with  great  elms  and  plane-trees, 
through  which  they  were  passing,  reminded  her  of 
that  holiday  of  gladness  with  a  swift  pang  of  men- 
tal longing  and  regret  that  was  almost  physical  in 
its  pain.  She  knew  as  by  instinct,  even  after  all  the 
long  years,  when  she  was  passing  the  Church  of  St. 
Vincent-de-Paul,  and  she  turned  her  face  away, 
still  recalling  its  fagade  and  its  two  Gothic  towers. 
Together,  her  mother  and  herself  had  heard  the 
Easter  mass  there.  .  .  . 

is/ 


THE   SANCTUARY 


She  dined  alone  in  her  room  —  her  invariable 
custom  when  in  France  and  unattended  by  friends. 
Long  after  old  Hannah  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of 
utter  weariness,  and  dreaming  lifelike  dreams  of 
peaceful  living  at  The  Anchorage,  Blair  Martin  sat, 
a  book  in  hand,  trying  to  read  to  mind  and  eyes  the 
sleep  that  fatigue  should  have  brought.  Marseilles 
—  indeed  much  of  the  south  of  France  —  was  mem- 
ory-haunted for  her.  The  year  after  she  had  left 
the  school  in  Brussels  had  been  spent  in  France  with 
her  mother  vainly  searching  for  the  health  that 
never  came.  They  had  traveled  —  her  mother  and 
Herself  and  a  German  maid  —  in  almost  regal  state. 
She  remembered  that  her  father  had  withheld  noth- 
ing but' —  himself ;  and  she  realized,  with  a  knowl- 
edge won  from  the  depths  of  her  own  experience, 
that  in  withholding  himself  he  had  withheld  the 
only  thing  her  mother  needed  or  wanted.  When 
the  urgent  cable  reached  him  at  the  mills,  he  had 
taken  the  first  steamer  across  to  them,  but  the  first 
steamer  had  gotten  him  there  too  late.  It  had  been 
Blair,  in  the  first  flush  of  her  girlhood  and  untried 
by  love  or  suffering,  who  had  suddenly  become  a 
woman  and  dimly  sensed  the  meaning  of  that  yearn- 
ing that  until  the  very  last  had  dwelt  in  her  mother's 
saddened  eyes.  .  .  .  She  laid  down  her  book  and 
turned  out  the  lights  and  sat  by  the  window  watch- 
ing Marseilles  by  night.  .  .  .  Better  to  live  as  she 
was  living  and  sometimes  walk  that  mysterious 
Bridge  of  Dreams  than  to  have  lived  to  have  had 
the  ideals  shattered  by  the  hand  of  Time. 

188 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Early  the  next  morning  Blair  Martin  left  Mar- 
seilles by  boat  for  Grenette,  a  small  fishing  village 
half  a  day's  ride  up  the  coast.  The  skies  looked 
threatening  and  the  hotel  clerk  urged  her  to  wait 
over  forty-eight  hours  for  the  next  boat.  Blair 
Martin  shook  her  head  and  ordered  the  baggage 
transferred.  She  would  not  admit  to  herself  her 
anxiety  to  reach  the  Island  now  that  she  had  once 
started,  after  having  waited  for  so  long.  From 
the  Bridge  of  Dreams,  Stone  seemed  calling  her. 

The  trip  on  the  boat  was  a  tiresome  and  trying 
one.  The  craft  offered  few  comforts  for  passengers, 
and  two  hours  out  a  storm  arose  and  whipped  the 
waters  on  the  coast  into  a  white  fury,  and  Han- 
nah and  herself  were  driven  by  its  force  below. 
Hannah  soon  reached  the  stage  where  a  rough  bench 
became  more  to  be  desired  than  the  straight-backed 
wicker  chair,  and  dry  land  the  only  thing,  outside 
of  Blair  Martin's  happiness,  that  she  wanted  from 
the  hands  of  gods  or  men.  Blair  Martin,  herself, 
usually  a  good  sailor,  began  to  wonder  if  the  crazy 
little  craft  would  ever  cease  its  rolling,  and  the 
white-crested,  choppy  sea  she  saw  through  the  port, 
resume  a  more  peaceful  and  comfortable  mood.  The 
boat  was  delayed  some  three  hours  and  it  was  night- 
fall when  they  reached  the  little  fishing  village  of 
Grenette.  A  fine  penetrating  rain  was  descending 
like  a  veil  over  the  hamlet.  The  kindly  mate  and 
a  peasant  shifted  the  baggage  from  the  Marseilles 
boat  to  a  rough  craft  of  about  half  the  length,  and 
got  Miss  Martin  and  Hannah  —  more  dead  than 

189 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

alive  —  transferred,  in  addition  to  the  numerous 
trunks  and  bags.  The  trip  from  Grenette  to  the 
Island  took  another  hour  on  account  of  the  bad 
weather.  The  seas  had  been  considerably  stilled  by 
the  rain  that  was  falling,  but  the  little  launch  was 
wet  and  even  the  leaky  close  cabin  was  damp.  The 
pilot,  Frangois  Fauchet,  with  the  face  of  a  boy  and 
the  sea  knowledge  of  a  man,  offered  them  the  shelter 
and  the  meager  comfort  of  his  small  pilot  house. 
Never  in  the  knowledge  of  Fauchet  had  such  a 
grand  person  stepped  into  his  pilot  house  en  route 
for  the  Island,  unless  it  might  be  the  Island  priest, 
whom  Fauchet  regarded  as  the  type  of  all  that  was 
desirable  in  man.  Once  or  twice  from  his  wheel  he 
peered  at  Miss  Martin  shyly.  Surely  not  since  the 
days  when  the  Comtesse  de  Grandcceur,  the  Chate- 
laine of  the  Island,  had  come  and  gone  on  this  little 
craft  years  ago  when  his  father  was  its  pilot,  had 
such  a  grand  lady  been  aboard.  The  few  words  she 
had  addressed  to  him  he  recognized  as  pure  French, 
almost  as  pure  as  the  Comtesse  herself  might  have 
used,  but  Fauchet,  born  and  bred  in  the  fishing  vil- 
lage of  Grenette,  and  who  had  only  made  two  city 
trips  in  his  life,  one  to  Marseilles  and  the  other  last 
summer  to  Avignon,  was  quite  convinced  that  the 
lady  did  not  come  from  France.  She  was  English  ? 
Fauchet  shook  his  head  and  watched  the  wheel  spin 
as  he  eased  his  helm.  Impossible.  She  seemed 
quite  too  nice  for  that.  She  could  not  be  Russian. 
Her  eyes  were  not  dark  enough  and  she  bore  around 
her  no  atmosphere  of  revolutionary  plots  and  in- 

190 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

trigues.  Undoubtedly  she  was  American.  America 
must  be  a  great  country.  Had  it  not  been  an  Amer- 
ican, whose  name  no  one  in  Grenette  remembered 
and  whom  only  a  few  had  seen,  who  had  come  once 
to  the  Island  years  ago  and  won  the  Comtesse  from 
them  ?  He  remembered  hearing  his  mother  say  that 
the  marriage  had  broken  Father  Lamore's  heart. 
He  was  a  grand  American,  so  the  stories  had  gone 
• —  some  one  had  said  he  was  an  officer  in  the  Navy 
and  hence  recommended  to  Fauchet's  consideration 
—  but  if  in  any  way  he  had  hurt  Father  Lamore. 
.  .  .  Fauchet  suddenly  blew  his  whistle  with  unex- 
pected force. 

The  rain  was  still  falling  heavily  as  the  boat  made 
a  landing  at  the  Island  wharf.  Fauchet  himself 
helped  Miss  Martin  and  Hannah  over  the  rough 
gangway  and  held  an  umbrella  over  the  former's 
head. 

"You  have  friends  awaiting  you?"  he  asked  in 
patois  French  and  wondering,  if  so,  who  of  the 
Island  peasants  her  friends  might  be. 

Blair  Martin  stared  ahead  of  her  into  impene- 
trable darkness.  This  then  was  the  Island  of  the 
Angels!  She  knew  no  one  here.  She  wondered 
dully  what  had  brought  her.  She  looked  up  into 
Fauchet's  face,  suddenly  grateful  for  the  interest  he 
had  shown. 

"  I  know  no  one,"  she  said  simply  in  French. 
"  Father  Lamore  wrote  me  I  might  get  rooms  at 
Toinette  Dorset's.  I  wrote  to  her  a  week  ago  from 
Switzerland.  I  asked  her  to  let  me  know  at  Mar- 

191 


THE   SANCTUARY 


seilles.  I  have  heard  nothing.  Is  there  anywhere 
I  can  go  with  my  maid  for  to-night?  " 

Fauchet  stroked  his  smooth  young  chin  thought- 
fully. 

"  Toinette  Dorset  is  my  cousin's  widow.  Most 
of  us  are  kin  at  the  Island.  I  have  been  at  Grenette 
for  the  last  three  days  and  have  not  seen  Toinette, 
but  if  you  know  Father  Lamore  —  "  he  broke  off 
suddenly. 

From  the  darkness  emerged  the  figure  of  a  boy  in 
a  blue  peasant's  blouse,  holding  a  lantern  in  his  hand. 
Fauchet  became  suddenly  conscious  that  the  rain 
had  stopped,  and  lowered  the  umbrella. 

"  Ah,  it  is  the  little  Anthony  Carrere.  He  is 
probably  bringing  you  a  message  from  the  good 
Father." 

The  boy  came  nearer,  the  lantern  raised  the  better 
to  help  him  in  his  search.  Its  light  illuminated  his 
face,  and  the  strange  beauty  of  it  startled  Blair  Mar- 
tin into  a  momentary  exclamation  of  surprise.  In 
looking  she  forgot  that  she  was  desolate  and  tired. 
By  the  lantern's  aid  it  shone  forth  from  the  dark- 
ness, and  it  seemed  apart  from  earth.  By  and  by 
the  boy  came  quite  close  to  her,  looking  up.  In 
silence  she  waited  for  his  message.  He  spoke  in 
French  that  had  little  of  the  patois  of  the  peasant. 

"  I  come  from  the  good  Father.  He  could  not 
come  —  he  is  with  some  one  who  is  dying."  Here 
the  boy  stopped  a  moment  and  slowly  crossed  him- 
self. Blair  Martin  watched  him,  fascinated.  "  He 
sends  you  his  blessing  and  his  greeting  and  will  call 

192 


*%  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

to-morrow.  I  have  here  the  chaise  he  sent  for  you.. 
If  it  pleases  you,  Mademoiselle,  I  will  drive  you 
to  Toinette  Dorset's.  She  got  the  good  Father  to 
write  to  you  at  Marseilles.  She  is  waiting  for  you 
and  your  maid." 

As  in  a  dream  Blair  Martin  listened.  She  remem- 
bered thanking  Fauchet,  who  helped  her  and  Han- 
nah into  the  chaise  and  who  promised  to  attend  to 
the  luggage  for  them.  Then  the  boy,  who  had  been 
waiting  respectfully  by,  lantern  in  hand,  hung  the 
latter  to  the  carriage's  top  to  light  them  on  their 
way,  and  getting  into  the  front  seat,  picked  up  the 
reins.  Hannah,  who  had  about  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  she  had  reached  the  world's  end,  sank 
back  in  a  corner  of  the  old  but  comfortable  chaise 
with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  and  closed  her  eyes  and 
dozed.  Blair  Martin  stared  in  front  of  her.  The 
night  was  still  dark  and  she  could  see  little  ahead, 
and  she  found  herself  studying  the  boy  in  front  of 
her.  The  lantern  dimly  illuminated  his  head,  which 
was  bare.  Once  he  half  turned  in  his  seat  and  said 
quite  thoughtfully : 

"  I  hope  Mademoiselle  will  like  the  Island." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall,"  said  Blair  Martin. 

"  Mademoiselle  cannot  see  the  Island  now,  it  is 
so  dark,  but  when  the  light  comes  — "  the  boy 
Anthony  broke  off,  a  smile  upon  his  face. 

'  Yes,"  said  Blair  Martin  softly,  remembering 
that  Stone  had  been  to  the  Island  and  looked  on  the 
beauty  hidden  from  her,  "  when  —  the  —  light  — 
comes." 

193 


III. 

AT  seven  the  next  morning  Blair  Martin  was 
standing  at  the  doorway  of  the  Dorset  cot- 
tage looking  out  across  the  Island.  The 
clouds  had  been  dispelled  and  the  morning  light  re- 
vealed a  scene  of  undreamed-of  beauty.  Never  in 
all  her  wanderings  of  this  year  or  of  other  years  had 
she  come  across  a  spot  that  so  soothed  her  with  its 
peace  and  held  her  with  its  charm.  From  the  busy 
world  and  haunts  of  men  she  had  awakened  over- 
night to  this;  and  she  had  not  known  that  outside 
of  romantic  books  or  mystic's  dreams  such  places 
could  exist,  to  the  outward  world  comparatively  un- 
known. She  was  seeing  it  this  morning  glorified, 
as  she  had  seen  it  that  winter's  day  last  year  when, 
before  the  fire  in  her  tea-room  at  the  Anchorage, 
Stone  had  described  it  to  her.  The  perfect  verdure 
of  the  gentle  slopes  waiting  in  the  sunshine  of  the 
early  spring  for  the  ripening  of  the  vineyard  har- 
vest; the  picturesque  homes  of  the  peasants;  their 
quaint  dress ;  the  blue  of  the  Mediterranean  that  lay 
around  the  Island  as  a  mother's  arms  encircling  a 
loved  child;  and  further  off,  up  on  the  cliff,  the 
chateau  with  its  turrets  —  the  church  on  the  cliff's 
summit  with  its  spire  standing  out  against  a  bluer 
sky  —  all  this  she  saw  and  sensed  with  a  vision  that 

194 


THE   SANCTUARY 


could  see  beyond  the  physical,  and  a  spirit  that  knew 
instinctively  when  it  was  at  home. 

The  wonder  of  it,  the  spell  of  it  was  still  upon  her 
when  she  was  aroused  by  the  clicking  of  the  gate. 
She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  man  who  was  closing  it 
behind  him.  He  wore  the  dress  of  a  priest. 

She  made  no  motion,  but  continued  to  watch  him 
coming  towards  her  up  the  garden  path.  He  was 
tall,  perhaps  six  feet,  slender  and  with  the  bearing 
of  a  soldier.  In  his  hands,  held  in  front  of  him,  he 
was  holding  his  hat,  and  she  noticed  that  his  dark 
hair  was  slightly  streaked  with  gray.  His  face,  on 
which  experience  had  written  a  long  story,  bore  no 
deeper  marks  than  those  that  come  from  study  and 
from  pity  and  from  sorrow.  There  was  on  him 
that  indescribable  mark  that  spoke  of  the  eternal 
youth  of  the  spirit  which  Time  could  only  soften, 
not  change.  All  this  came  to  her  just  then  rather 
as  an  impression  than  as  the  result  of  closer  observa- 
tion. A  few  feet  from  her  he  paused  smiling,  look- 
ing in  her  eyes. 

"  I  am  Lamore,"  he  said  simply,  "  Pierre  Lamore 
—  the  priest  and  —  the  Father  of  the  people  of  the 
Island." 

"  I  knew  you  at  once,"  she  answered,  and  she 
wondered  at  the  frankness  of  her  speech.  "  And  — 
I  —  " 

He  advanced  and  took  her  extended  hand  and 
bowed  over  it.  For  an  instant  the  parish  priest  had 
fled  and  in  his  place  stood  a  courtier  and  a  nobleman. 

"  It  is  Mademoiselle  Martin,  the  friend  of  my 

195 


good  friend,  Hector  Stone.  He  wrote  me  months 
ago  that  he  hoped  you  would  come  to  the  Island. 
For  months,  Mademoiselle,  the  Island  has  been  wait- 
ing." 

She  smiled  a  little  wistfully. 

"  So  strange  —  so  strange,"  she  said,  "  that  I  did 
not  think  to  come  before.  If  I  had  only  known  what 
your  Island  was.  .  .  ." 

He  dropped  her  hand  and  stood  regarding  her. 
For  the  first  time  since  she  had  left  Stone,  she  knew 
the  compelling  power  and  wonder  that  sometimes 
dwells  in  human  eyes. 

"  One  has  to  come  to  the  Island,  Mademoiselle, 
to  dwell  on  it,  to  know  all  that  its  beauty  means. 
There  are  times  when  I  think  of  the  Island  as  a 
great  sealed  book  of  ancient  wisdom  that  only  the 
initiated,  the  pure  in  heart,  can  read." 

She  watched  his  face,  his  bearing.  From  the 
priest  he  had  changed  swiftly  to  the  courtier,  from 
the  courtier  he  had  changed  to  the  student  and  the 
scholar.  Now  he  was  speaking  as  a  friend  —  a  host. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  have  found  us.  I  fear  the 
trip  from  Marseilles  was  bad.  Our  beautiful  Medi- 
terranean can  be  very  rough,  and  sometimes  it 
makes  some  of  us  very  ill.  You  brought  your 
maid  —  and  did  my  boy,  Anthony,  meet  you  safely 
with  the  chaise  ?  " 

"  Hannah  is  upstairs  unpacking.  The  young  cap- 
tain saw  that  we  got  our  things  early.  And  the  boy 
you  call  Anthony  —  did  he  not  bring  back  to  you 
my  thanks  ? " 

196 


THE   SANCTUARY 


Pierre  Lamore's  face  became  suddenly  grave. 

"  I  was  not  at  home  when  Anthony  came  back  last 
night.  All  through  the  darkness,  Mademoiselle,  I 
was  watching  a  soul  depart."  The  eyes  that  she  had 
been  watching  intently  changed.  It  was  as  though 
the  compelling  power  of  them  withdrew  to  make 
room  for  an  all-embracing  compassion.  "  When 
the  dawn  came,  Mademoiselle,  the  soul  slipped  out. 
Presently  you  will  hear  the  bell  of  the  village  church 
tolling.  .  .  ." 

Blair  Martin  looked  away  suddenly,  wondering 
why  she  was  so  moved  at  the  news  of  a  stranger's 
—  a  peasant's  death. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  more  gently  than  she 
knew.  "  And  you  —  you  must  be  very  tired." 

"  I  am  used  to  such  things,  Mademoiselle." 

"  And  the  chaise  —  you  sent  the  chaise  for  me 
when  you  needed  it  yourself." 

"  I  rarely  use  the  chaise,  Mademoiselle,  on  a  visit 
of  that  sort." 

"  You  have  had  your  breakfast?  " 

"  Not  yet.  I  celebrate  mass  in  a  little  while. 
Then  my  good  Marie  will  get  me  something  to  eat 
and  I  shall  rest  until  noon.  I  was  passing  here  on 
my  way  to  the  church.  I  stopped  in  to  inquire  about 
you  of  Toinette.  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  up  so 
early." 

Blair  Martin  smiled. 

"  I  rather  surprise  myself,"  she  said.  "  I  could 
not  sleep  after  six,  when  I  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  out.  The  earth  seemed  calling  me.  I  fear 

197 


*B  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Hannah  is  dozing  over  the  trunks.  Poor  Hannah, 
she  bears  so  patiently  with  all  my  varying  moods." 

"Is  it  your  maid,  Mademoiselle?  Ah,  yes.  I 
am  glad  you  have  so  faithful  a  friend.  You  travel 
alone  with  her?  " 

"  Quite  alone,  unless  I  join  parties,  which  is  sel- 
dom. I  fear  you  hardly  approve."  She  laughed  a 
little  at  his  grave  face. 

"  It  is  not  exactly  the  way  our  ladies  in  France 
do  —  yet  who  shall  say  which  custom  excels  ?  All 
are  probably  right,  Mademoiselle,  according  to  the 
bringing  up.  I  do  not  personally  agree  with  all  the 
customs  of  your  great  land  —  yet  what  of  it?" 

"  You  know  America?  " 

"  A  little,  Mademoiselle.  A  few  years  ago  I  had 
the  honor  of  representing  France  at  a  convention 
in  your  West.  I  saw  much  in  a  short  while ;  I 
learned  much  as  well." 

"  You  are  modest,  Father ;  they  tell  me  you  are 
one  of  the  great  scholars  of  the  Church." 

A  slight  flush  crept  over  the  priest's  face. 

"  I  have  prejudiced  friends.  I  rather  think  of 
myself  as  the  student  —  always  learning." 

"  So  few  take  that  attitude,"  said  Blair  Martin. 

"  Perhaps,  Mademoiselle.  I  know  of  one  man 
who  retains  the  child's  attitude  of  receiving  and  im- 
parting impressions  to  a  greater  extent  than  any  one 
I  have  ever  met.  It  is  Hector  Stone." 

She  started  slightly  at  the  unexpected  mention  of 
Stone's  name,  and  was  not  aware  that  Lamore  had 
heeded  it. 

198 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  Mr.  Stone  is  a  big  man,  Father  Lamore.  Amer- 
ica needs  more  like  him."  She  spoke  as  imperson- 
ally as  she  could. 

"  All  countries  need  such  men,  Mademoiselle. 
For  years  I  have  known  him;  for  years  I  have 
followed  his  work  and  his  movements  from  afar; 
for  years  I  have  built  my  trust  on  him.  I  have  never 
known  him  in  great  things  —  or  in  little  things  — 
to  fail." 

She  did  not  answer,  conscious  that  her  lips  were 
trembling. 

Lamore  stepped  a  little  nearer  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"  I  must  go  now,  Mademoiselle.  I  am  glad  of 
this  informal  meeting.  Soon  I  will  make  my  formal 
call  upon  you.  Toinette  —  she  makes  you  comfort- 
able?" 

"  Yes,  Father."  She  put  her  hand  in  his,  her  face 
controlled  now,  and  smiling  as  she  remembered  the 
simplicity  of  the  rooms  upstairs,  their  sloping  walls, 
the  well-scrubbed  sanded  floors. 

He  saw  the  smile  and  laughed  genially. 

"  In  time  you  will  forget,  Mademoiselle,  you  ever 
lived  in  a  world  of  luxury  and  fashion." 

"  I  am  willing  to  forget,  Father,"  she  said,  and 
she  would  not  meet  his  eyes. 

From  around  the  corner  of  the  house  Toinette 
Dorset  came.  On  seeing  the  priest  she  hurried  for- 
ward and  when  near  him  courtesied,  and  then  knelt 
for  blessing. 

Blair  Martin  watched  the  scene  curiously.     As 

199 


*ft  THE   SANCTUARY  %* 

naturally  as  he  had  talked  to  her  and  as  simply  as 
he  drew  breath,  she  saw  Lamore  raise  his  hand. 
The  words  of  the  Latin  blessing  fell  slowly,  sono- 
rously, on  the  morning  breeze,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  Blair  Martin  knew  and  felt  something 
of  the  mystic  meaning  that  lies  behind  the  sign  of 
the  cross.  Instinctively  she  bowed  her  head. 

Then  Toinette  Dorset  rose  and  stood  at  a  re- 
spectful distance  from  them.  Indeed  she  would 
have  gone  and  left  them  had  not  Lamore  drawn  her 
into  the  conversation. 

"  The  little  sick  duck,  Toinette  —  it  is  better  ?  " 

"  Nay,  Father.     It  is  dead." 

"  So !  And  the  flowers,  Toinette  —  will  your 
garden  be  among  the  first  this  year?  " 

Toinette  Dorset  courtesied  again. 

"  The  flowers  promise  well,  Father,  thanks  to  the 
seeds  you  sent,  but  none  of  us  can  hope  for  flowers 
like  you  have.  The  boy  Anthony  has  the  magic 
hand." 

"  Quite  true,  Toinette !  I  know  not  what  I  should 
do  without  him  or  his  mother  Marie.  They  take 
good  care  of  the  house  and  the  chickens  and  old 
Nanette  and  —  me."  His  laugh,  well  pitched  and 
wholesome,  was  a  thing  one  cared  to  hear. 

Blair  Martin  and  her  peasant  hostess  watched 
him  down  the  garden  path.  At  the  gate  he  looked 
back  and  smiled  at  them.  In  the  light  of  his  learn- 
ing1 he  seemed  so  remote  from  them;  in  the  sim- 
plicity of  his  compassion  in  all  their  interests  and 
their  needs,  so  close. 

200 


THE   SANCTUARY 


Toinette  shaded  her  eyes  from  the  morning  sun, 
the  better  to  watch  him  down  the  road. 
"  There  goes  a  saint,  Mademoiselle." 
Blair  Martin  did  not  answer  as  she  turned  back 
to  the  house,  but  she  thought  "  There  goes  a  — 
man." 


201 


IV. 

THOSE  first  days  at  the  Island  were  a  revela- 
tion to  Blair  Martin.  She  had  never  known 
how  full  days  of  such  simple  living  could 
be,  and  she  fell  instinctively  into  the  life  lived  by 
the  others  there.  After  Toinette  had  brought  her 
her  supper  on  a  wooden  tray  —  and  the  food  was 
plainer  and  more  wholesome  than  she  had  ever  eaten 
before  —  and  she  had  watched  Toinette  wash  the 
dishes  and  tidy  up  for  the  night,  and  sweep  clean 
the  sanded  floor,  there  had  been  little  to  do  by  way 
of  diversion  and  she  had  followed  the  example  of  the 
people  of  the  Island  and  gone  to  bed.  Sometimes 
she  would  sit  by  her  window  after  she  had  blown  out 
the  candle  and  watch  the  moon  rise  over  the  sea  and 
fall  upon  the  Island,  and  smile  to  herself  at  the 
primitive  life  she  was  leading.  For  the  first  time 
she  enjoyed  rising  early,  and  daily  she  marveled  at 
the  splendor  of  the  varying  sunrise.  She  grew  to 
listen  for  the  singing  of  the  birds,  the  bark  of  Toi- 
nette's  St.  Bernard  that  reminded  her  of  Ajax  at 
home.  Home!  Sometimes  she  wondered  if  she 
had  ever  had  a  home  since  her  mother  had  died 

202 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

more  worthy  of  the  name  than  this  that  she  had 
found  so  strangely  in  this  peasant  woman's  cottage. 
Sometimes  she  helped  Toinette  in  the  garden  with 
the  flowers  and  even  among  the  early  vegetables. 
It  was  while  she  was  working  so  one  day,  in  a  skirt 
and  waist  she  once  would  have  hesitated  to  give  to 
an  under-housemaid  at  the  Anchorage,  with  sleeves 
rolled  up  and  bareheaded  in  the  sun,  that  Pierre 
Lamore  found  her  when  he  came  to  call. 

"  I  am  quite  one  of  you,  Father,"  she  had  said 
with  a  laugh  after  the  greetings  were  over. 
"  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  I  ever  knew  any  other  life." 

"  Forget  that  you  ever  have,"  he  answered. 
"  When  you  go  back  to  it  you  will  be  the  better  for 
the  forgetting." 

She  brushed  some  dirt  off  of  the  big  apron  of 
Toinette's  that  she  wore,  a  serious  look  in  her  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  she  said.  "  Sometimes 
it  seems  to  me  I  do  not  want  to  know  any  other 
life.  It  is  as  if  I  had  stepped  from  tumult  into 
peace."  She  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  towards 
the  great  chateau  towering  above  them  on  the  cliff. 
"  It  is  beautiful,"  she  said,  speaking  musingly  and 
irrelevantly,  "  but  it  looks  so  lonely.  I  think  I  like 
the  valley  and  the  vineyards  best." 

"  Mademoiselle,  the  heights  are  always  lonely." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  continued  to  look  up  at 
the  chateau.  By  and  by  she  half  turned  with  a  sigh. 

"  How  rude  I  am !  Will  you  not  come  in  and  sit 
down  and  rest?  " 

'  Thank  you,  Mademoiselle,  with  your  permis- 

2O3 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

sion.  This  is  my  formal  call,"  and  with  a  smile  he 
opened  the  gate  at  which  he  had  been  standing,  and 
came  around  to  where  she  stood  leaning  on  the 
fence. 

"  This,  then,  is  my  receiving  dress,"  said  Blair 
Martin  with  a  laugh,  smoothing  out  the  folds  of 
Toinette's  apron.  "  Will  you  come  inside  or  shall 
we  sit  here  on  this  bench  ?  " 

"  Let  it  be  here,  Mademoiselle.  I  never  stay  in- 
doors in  southern  France  at  this  season  unless  my 
duties  call  me." 

Together  they  sat  down  —  the  great  scholar  and 
nobleman  in  his  simple  priest's  dress;  the  rich 
woman  of  the  world  in  a  peasant's  gingham  apron. 
Neither  seemed  conscious  of  any  incongruity  in 
their  being  so  disguised,  nor  in  the  setting  of  the 
peasant's  low-roofed  cottage  and  small  garden.  He 
was  studying  her  as  all  his  life  he  had  studied  men 
and  women  as  well  as  books.  She  folded  her  hands 
—  white  hands,  unused  to  toil  and  now  becoming 
sunburned  and  discolored  —  over  the  gingham 
apron.  Again  her  gaze  rested  on  the  chateau. 

"  There  is  so  much  time  to  dream  here,  Father, 
and  I  have  been  dreaming  often.  Tell  me  something 
of  the  chateau.  Is  it  occupied  ?  " 

His  look  did  not  leave  her  face,  which  he  was  still 
regarding  closely,  but  a  troubled  shadow  crept  into 
his  eyes.  He  thought  swiftly  of  Hector  Stone  — 
of  the  letter  Stone  had  written  him  —  of  the  trust 
Stone  had  placed  in  him.  How  much  should  he 
tell  and  yet  remain  true  ? 

204 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  The  chateau,  Mademoiselle,  is  unoccupied.  In 
France  one  can  still  see  if  the  owner  is  away  by  one 
unfailing  sign.  Mademoiselle  sees  the  tower  to  the 
left?" 

She  nodded. 

"  In  France  such  towers  are  generally  guide  posts. 
As  you  will  see,  there  is  no  flag  flying  from  the 
staff.  It  means  the  owner  is  away.  Always  the 
flag  flies  when  the  owner  is  at  home  —  always  the 
flag  hangs  at  half-mast  when  the  heir  is  dead,  and 
later  is  taken  down,  and  what  we  call  the  Great 
Banner  flung  to  the  breeze.  Some  eleven  or  twelve 
years  ago,  the  Great  Banner  with  its  gold  fringe  was 
last  flown  there.  It  was  for  a  child  —  a  boy  —  and 
the  private  chapel  of  St.  Michael's  that  you  sec 
higher  up  on  the  cliff,  is  his  memorial." 

Blair  Martin  looked  at  the  priest  and  drew  a  long 
breath.  An  interest  such  as  she  had  not  known  in 
months  stirred  at  her  heart. 

"  It  is  like  a  story,  Father,  like  a  story  that  one 
reads  —  "  she  broke  off,  looking  at  the  bare  flag- 
staff again. 

"  Life  is  so  much  stranger,  Mademoiselle,  than 
fiction." 

"  So  it  has  been  said,  yet  —  "  she  hesitated,  look- 
ing again  at  the  priest,  whose  face  gave  no  sign  of 
the  anxiety  her  words  were  causing.  "  Tell  me  some 
more,  Father.  There  is  no  other  heir  ?  " 

"  There  is  only  one  of  the  line  left,  Mademoi- 
selle ;  a  woman  —  the  mother  of  the  boy  —  she  is 
away." 

205 


"  You  knew  her,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Since  she  was  a  child,"  and  for  the  first  time  the 
expression  of  the  priest's  face  changed  swiftly  to 
one  of  unutterable  pain  that  startled  her.  "  Al- 
ways I  have  known  the  family.  It  is  one  of  the 
oldest  in  France.  As  a  boy,  Mademoiselle,  I  played 
with  the  mother's  mother  in  the  chateau  garden. 
The  chateau  garden  is  the  jewel  of  the  Island;  for 
centuries  it  has  been  its  pride  and  boast." 

"  I  am  curious.    Some  day  I  may  go  there  ?  " 

Lamore  smiled  a  little. 

"  Perhaps  some  time,  if  you  care  to.  The  head 
gardener,  Giovanni,  is  an  Italian  and  the  grand- 
father of  my  little  Anthony.  He  rules  supreme  there 
and  he  is  jealous  and  suspicious  of  strangers.  Some 
day  you  might  persuade  him." 

"  I  shall  enlist  your  help,  Father ;  it  is  the  Open 
Sesame  to  all  things  of  the  Island.  And  the  church 

—  that  wonderful  church  up  there  —  I  may  see  that, 
too?" 

"  Nay,  Mademoiselle,  the  chapel  is  a  private  one." 

"  But,  Father  —  " 

"  There  are  but  two  keys  to  it.  The  Comtesse, 
who  is  away,  holds  one." 

"  And  the  other,  Father  —  is  yours."  Blair  Mar- 
tin leaned  eagerly  forward  on  the  bench.  "  It  is 
yours  —  I  know  it  is  —  you  will  not  refuse  me? 
Sometimes  on  my  walks  I  have  stopped  at  the  foot 
of  the  cliff  and  I  have  heard  the  music  of  an  organ 

—  a  wonderful  organ  —  and  the  sound  of  children 
singing." 

206 


flg  THE   SANCTUARY  t& 

"Indeed,  Mademoiselle?"  He  questioned  her 
kindly. 

"  Surely,  Father,  you  must  know."  In  her  eager- 
ness and  interest  she  had  risen  from  the  bench  and 
stood  before  him  in  a  pretty  unconscious  attitude  of 
entreaty. 

"  Yes,  Mademoiselle.  You  heard  the  Children's 
Mass." 

"It  is  only  for  the  children  then?"  she  asked, 
and  she  could  not  keep  the  note  of  disappointment 
from  her  voice. 

Lamore  rose  and  looked  down  on  her  from  his 
height.  She  remembered  afterwards  that  his  voice 
had  been  the  kindest  that  she  had  ever  heard  —  that 
the  tone  had  robbed  the  words  of  all  their  sting. 

"  St.  Michael's,  Mademoiselle,  is  built  above  the 
crypt  that  holds  the  earthly  body  of  the  little  Count. 
Always  does  the  great  saint  guard  well  his  charge 
and  the  little  children  who  go  with  me  to  sing  there. 
In  that  Sanctuary  dwells  a  Presence  and  a  Peace  on 
which  the  outward  world  has  never  jarred.  When 
one  has  come  to  know  that  Presence  and  that  Peace, 
one  may  enter  St.  Michael's  with  the  heart  of  a  little 
child.  Until  then,  Mademoiselle,  the  village  church 
is  open  to  you  as  it  is  to  every  man  and  woman  of 
the  Island.  Come  to  it  and  let  it  help  you.  Accept 
from  it  what  you  can." 

A  sudden  tightening  came  to  Blair  Martin's 
throat.  She  put  her  hand  up  to  it  as  though  the 
pressure  of  her  fingers  there  would  help  her.  In 
silence  she  looked  again  toward  St.  Michael's  on  the 

207 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

cliff.  One  slender  Gothic  spire  tipped  with  a  gold 
cross  stood  out  against  the  blue  of  the  southern  sky. 

"  If  I  come  to  the  village  church  sometimes,"  she 
said,  still  not  looking  at  Lamore,  "  will  —  will  I 
learn  how  to  reach  St.  Michael's?" 

Lamore  smiled  kindly. 

"  Perhaps,  Mademoiselle,  yet  I  cannot  promise. 
The  little  village  church  would  help  you  were  you  of 
our  faith,  yet  few  even  of  that  faith  have  attained 
to  St.  Michael's.  The  peasants  here  will  tell  you 
strange  stories  of  that  great  chapel  on  the  cliff  — 
most  of  my  people  are  very  simple  and  some  are 
very  superstitious,  and  most  of  them  would  not  pass 
the  portal  of  St.  Michael's  if  they  might.  Some- 
times they  question  the  children,  and  because  the 
children  do  not  tell  them  what  their  own  disordered 
brains  have  planned,  they  do  not  believe  them.  Yet, 
Mademoiselle,  it  is  to  the  little  ones  that  the  mys- 
teries of  heaven  lie  nearest." 

Blair  Martin  drew  odd  figures  with  the  tip  of  her 
finger  across  Toinette's  gingham  apron.  A  sudden 
strange  resentment  filled  her  heart. 

"  Yet  the  memorial  chapel  is  built  to  your  God, 
and  are  we  not  all  His  children  ?  " 

"  Surely,  Mademoiselle,"  and  a  quality  in  La- 
more's  voice  quenched  the  resentment  and  made  her 
suddenly  ashamed  of  it  as  an  unworthy  thing. 
"  What  pile  of  stone,  what  man-made  rule,  what 
depth  or  height,  or  miles  of  space  or  eons  of  time 
can  part  us  from  that  all-embracing  Consciousness 
in  which  we  breathe  and  move?  We  may  call  it 

208 


THE   SANCTUARY 


Force  or  God  or  the  Logos  or  the  Father  —  names 
mean  so  little  when  we  are  dealing  with  Reality. 
St.  Michael's  doors  can  never  bar  you  from  it,  and  if 
you  seek  you  will  surely  find.  Some  day,  Made- 
moiselle, you  may  reach  a  plateau  on  your  long  climb 
upward,  and  from  that  table-land  of  the  spirit  you 
will  look  back  and  see  how  you  have  in  your  strug- 
gles unconsciously  brought  stones  one  by  one  for 
the  building  of  a  temple  fairer  than  our  St.  Michael's 
on  the  rock  ;  and  one  by  one,  Mademoiselle,  as  each 
suffering  and  each  temptation  and  each  struggle  is 
overcome  you  will  lay  a  stone  in  place  until  that 
temple  of  your  soul  is  done.  Then  before  that 
Sanctuary  in  which  dwells  the  Divine  in  you,  your 
soul  will  light  its  lamp  and  make  profound  obei- 
sance. Then  —  then  —  Mademoiselle,  you  shall 
come  to  St.  Michael's  and  you  will  be  at  home.  In 
the  world  of  physical  things  we  do  not  give  the 
children  calculus  before  they  know  addition  —  nor 
put  a  burning  torch  in  hands  that  have  not  learned 
the  danger  of  the  illuminating  thing  they  carry. 
Wait,  Mademoiselle,  and  you  will  know  that  St. 
Michael's  stands  as  a  symbol  of  true  living,  no  mat- 
ter what  faith  you  hold  —  and  as  something  more 
than  an  old  priest's  fancy  or  a  mystic's  dream." 

She  listened  with  a  rapt  attention  that  was  so 
complete  that  time  and  place  were  forgotten.  Years 
afterward  she  remembered  Lamore's  face  —  recalled 
his  voice  that  held  and  thrilled  her. 

When  he  had  gone  —  and  strangely  enough  she 
did  not  question  that  he  had  divined  her  need  and 

209 


THE   SANCTUARY 


tried  to  help  her  —  she  still  sat  on  the  wooden  bench 
near  Toinette's  door,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap, 
her  face  raised  to  St.  Michael's.     She  spoke  aloud. 
"  So  far,"  she  said.    "  So  far." 


2IO 


V. 

DURING  the  weeks  following,  Blair  Martin 
watched  the  flowers  grow  in  Toinette's  gar- 
den, and  daily  felt  the  increasing  warmth 
of  the  sun  as  it  lay  in  a  bright  sheet  of  glory  over 
the  vineyards  waiting  for  the  harvest.  She  was 
much  alone.  After  her  first  fortnight  in  the  Island, 
when  things  had  grown  less  strange,  she  had  in- 
sisted that  Hannah  should  go  and  visit  a  niece  who 
had  married  and  settled  in  Devonshire.  Hannah, 
while  loath  to  separate  herself  from  her  mistress, 
had  nevertheless  drawn  a  deep  sigh  of  relief  as  her 
boat  had  started  for  Marseilles.  More  than  her 
dread  of  the  long  journey  to  England  alone  was 
her  anxiety  to  get  away  from  a  place  whose  cli- 
mate she  did  not  like,  whose  beauty  did  not  espe- 
cially appeal  to  her,  whose  people  she  did  not  under- 
stand. She  felt  it  would  be  good  to  breathe  the 
dampness  of  the  English  air  once  more  —  to  see 
Devonshire  just  bursting  into  its  spring  bloom. 
She  was  dimly  conscious  that  Blair  Martin  needed 
her  just  now  less  than  ever  before  on  their  trip,  and 
the  knowledge  reassured  her  as  did  her  mistress' 

211 


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parting"  words  that  when  she  was  needed  she  would 
be  sent  for  at  once.  So  Blair  Martin  came  back 
from  Grenette  alone,  and  once  more  Fauchet  had  a 
chance  to  study  her. 

Sometimes  when  Toinette  could  spare  a  moment 
from  her  cleaning  and  her  gardening  and  her 
chickens  and  her  cow,  she  would  wipe  her  hands 
and  put  on  a  fresh  dress  and  quaint  head-piece 
that  the  women  of  the  Island  wore,  and  talk  to  the 
American  of  the  simple  homely  things  of  life.  The 
things  were  so  few,  so  childlike  that  made  up  Toi- 
nette's  life.  Now  it  was  a  birth  or  death  or  christen- 
ing, a  wedding  perhaps  ;  whether  the  Great  Cardinal 
would  make  his  usual  visit  the  following  year  and 
give  the  Island  the  special  blessing  from  the  Holy 
Father;  whether  the  vineyards  would  yield  a  fruit- 
ful crop  that  there  might  be  extra  wine  sent  to  the 
city's  poor  ;  or  perhaps  it  was  Father  Lamore's  last 
sermon,  or  the  coming  First  Communion  of  the 
Island  children  they  would  make  after  the  great 
Easter  festival.  Mademoiselle  must  not  fail  to  see 
the  First  Communion.  Toinette  doubted  if  Made- 
moiselle, even  in  America  —  where  they  said  the 
streets  were  paved  with  gold,  as  were  the  streets  of 
heaven  —  if  even  in  that  great  America,  Mademoi- 
selle had  seen  dresses  more  beautiful.  Each  girl 
would  have  a  veil  —  would  be  all  in  white,  and  the 
boys  —  did  Mademoiselle  know  that  the  boy  An- 
thony, whom  the  good  Father  loved  so,  would  this 
year  be  among  the  Communion  children? 

It  was,  strangely  enough,  the  boy  Anthony  who 

212 


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filled  more  than  any  one  else  the  hours  that  some- 
times dragged  and  promised  to  be  lonely.  Lamore 
she  saw  often,  but  often  not  more  than  a  few  minutes 
at  a  time.  Now  and  then  she  met  him  on  his  walks 
and  he  joined  her  for  a  little  while  on  his  way  to  or 
from  some  parish  visit.  Sometimes  she  merely 
passed  him  in  his  chaise  when  he  was  bound  for  a 
more  distant  point  of  the  Island.  She  noticed  that 
the  boy  Anthony  was  often  with  him,  and  each  time 
she  saw  him  the  strange  beauty  of  his  face  appealed 
to  her  afresh.  Sometimes  the  child  came  to  Toi- 
nette's  cottage  with  a  loaf  of  black  bread  fresh  from 
Marie's  oven;  sometimes  he  came  with  the  word 
that  the  good  Father  had  sent  him  and  bidden  him 
show  Mademoiselle  some  distant  point  of  beauty 
on  the  Island.  He  was  a  trusty  and  sure-footed 
little  guide  with  double  the  strength  his  slender 
limbs  and  delicate  clear-cut  features  would  imply. 
He  knew  as  though  by  instinct  where  the  rarest 
flowers  grew,  the  best  of  the  wild  strawberries  ;  and 
the  language  of  the  birds  and  the  little  creeping 
things  that  lived  in  the  woods;  the  burden  of  the 
song  that  the  wind  sang  among  the  tree  tops;  the 
chant  of  the  breakers  at  the  foot  of  the  high  cliff. 
Sometimes,  in  the  still  fastnesses  of  those  wooded 
slopes,  he  spoke  to  her  in  a  hushed,  awed  voice  of  a 
life  beyond  the  life  of  the  insect  or  the  bird  —  of  the 
fairies  and  the  elves  that  helped  to  fashion  every 
little  leaf,  that  painted  every  little  flower.  Some- 
times as  he  walked  beside  her  in  his  little  blue 
peasant  blouse,  head  bared  to  the  sun  filtering 

213 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

through  the  branches,  he  would  lift  up  his  face  to 
the  tree  tops  and  begin  to  sing,  as  unconsciously  as 
the  birds  he  loved  and  never  harmed.  Once  at  mid- 
day it  was  a  Latin  canticle  of  his  Church ;  another 
time  at  sunset  it  was  a  German  lullaby  taught  him  by 
Lamore,  and  which  she  had  heard  the  children  sing 
in  the  Swiss  uplands. 

"  Schlaf,  Kindlein,  schlaf !     Dein  Vater  huten  Schaf  —  " 

But  no  child  of  the  Swiss  uplands  had  sung  it  like 
the  boy  Anthony. 

He  was  many-sided  and  he  held  a  never  ceasing 
charm  for  her.  Sometimes  on  a  Sunday  when  she 
went  to  mass  she  would  watch  him  at  the  altar 
assisting  Pierre  Lamore,  see  him  kneel  in  the  aco- 
lyte's dress  on  the  altar  steps  with  folded  hands  re- 
citing the  responses.  It  was  then  she  would  recall 
Stone's  description  of  him  as  one  of  Botticelli's 
choristers.  His  voice,  clear  and  flute-like,  with  its 
perfect  Latin,  would  echo  in  her  brain  long  after 
the  service  had  closed.  And  likely  as  not,  on  the 
next  day  she  would  meet  him  on  the  road,  one  of  a 
group  of  chattering,  quarreling  peasant  children,  he 
in  their  midst  in  his  peasant's  blouse  like  theirs, 
shortly,  imperiously  settling  the  dispute.  The  other 
children,  even  the  older  ones,  never  questioned  his 
decisions  or  the  authority  that  seemed  his  by  a  right 
they  blindly  accepted  but  could  not  understand. 
Sometimes  it  seemed  to  Blair  Martin,  watching, 
that  the  little  Count,  disguised,  had  risen  from  his 

214 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

sleep  in  the  great  memorial  chapel  towering  on  the 
cliff,  and  had  come  among  them  with  the  right  the 
lord  of  the  Island  bore.  An  odd  dignity  —  a  gravity 
beyond  his  years  —  rested  on  him,  and  a  reserve 
that  none  seemed  able  to  break  through  except  La- 
more,  whom  he  adored.  Blair  Martin  used  to  satisfy 
the  curious  questionings  of  her  brain  in  regard  to 
him  and  tell  herself  that  the  life  he  lived  under  the 
roof  and  the  influence  of  Lamore  had  made  him  dif- 
ferent from  other  boys.  To  his  mother  he  was  def- 
erential but  curiously  reserved,  and  the  latter  re- 
garded him  much  as  the  mother  duck  in  the  old 
German  story  looked  on  the  swan  that  she  had 
warmed  to  life,  and  with  a  philosophy  of  which  she 
was  not  conscious  she  would  acknowledge  to  herself 
that  while  she  had  given  birth  to  his  body,  not  in 
looks  or  bearing  or  characteristics  of  the  mind  or 
spirit  did  she  understand  or  share  in  the  child  of 
her  begetting.  He  served  her  with  a  willingness 
that  never  flagged,  but  the  mother  heart  that  beat  in 
the  peasant-woman's  breast  would  sometimes  turn 
away  sick  from  the  service  that  duty  and  not  love 
had  brought.  In  her  simple  way  Marie  would  take 
her  trouble  sometimes  to  the  Virgin's  altar  in  the 
little  village  chapel,  and  with  tears  and  humble  trust 
plead  that  the  Great  Mother  would  heal  her  widowed 
heart  and  teach  her  to  understand  her  son.  Always 
in  the  eyes  of  the  boy  Anthony  as  they  looked  at. 
her  there  was  a  yearning  and  a  patience  as  though 
they  sought  and  waited  for  the  true  mother  who 
never  came. 

215 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

In  some  unaccountable  way  the  boy  Anthony 
came,  in  the  mind  of  Blair  Martin,  to  be  associated 
with  the  great  chapel  on  the  cliff  and  the  chateau 
further  down,  although  exactly  what  connection  one 
could  have  found  between  the  stately  piles  of  stone 
and  a  little  boy  in  a  blue  peasant's  blouse,  she  could, 
not  for  her  life  have  told.  But  the  vague  mystery 
of  it  and  a  sense  of  the  unreal,  as  though  she  had 
stepped  from  a  world  of  fact  into  a  world  of  fiction, 
possessed  her  and  brought  her  a  new  interest  that 
kept  her  mind  from  much  she  would  forget. 

Once  she  and  Anthony  on  one  of  their  long 
tramps  had  climbed  the  steep  side  of  the  cliff  over- 
hanging the  sea,  and  on  crossing  a  winding  drive- 
way she  had  come  unexpectedly  on  a  little  wicket 
gate.  Breathless  from  the  steep  ascent,  she  leaned 
against  it,  and  was  surprised  to  find  it  yielded  to 
her  touch. 

"  It  leads  to  the  chateau  garden,  Mademoiselle," 
said  the  boy,  smiling  a  little  and  replying  to  the 
question  in  her  eyes.  "  I  often  come  here  to  see  my 
grandfather  at  work  among  the  flowers.  Would 
Mademoiselle  care  to  see  the  garden?" 

"  So  much,"  said  Blair  Martin.  "I  —  "  then  she 
suddenly  stopped.  .  .  .  Why  she  could  not  have 
told,  but  before  her  inner  vision  swept  a  sense  of 
Hector  Stone's  face  and  following  him,  with  bowed 
and  averted  head,  the  faint  shadow  of  a  woman. 
Almost  immediately  her  vision  cleared  and  she  saw 
nothing  but  the  sheer  cliff,  the  sea  breaking  at  its 
base,  blue  sky,  and  nearer,  the  wicket  gate  that  led 

216 


THE   SANCTUARY 


to  green  still  woods  further  on,  and  the  face  of  the 
boy  Anthony  regarding  her  curiously. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  with  a  short  laugh  of  disdain 
at  her  vague  fancies,  and  led  by  Anthony,  she  passed 
through  the  wicket  gate  to  the  chateau  garden. 


217 


VI. 

EMERGING  from  the  wood  with  beating 
heart,  she  paused  in  silent  wonder.  She  had 
approached  the  garden  from  the  west 
through  a  small  side-entrance  and  a  turn  in  the 
wooded  path  had  hidden  it  from  her  until  she  came 
on  it  stretching  at  her  feet  in  all  its  loveliness.  In 
a  silence  that  the  boy  did  not  break  she  looked  on 
the  long  row  of  hedges,  the  perfectly  kept  walks,  the 
marble  terraced  steps  leading  up  and  up  to  a  broad 
lawn  spreading  in  front  of  the  chateau  —  a  royal 
carpet  spread  at  the  feet  of  a  royal  guest  —  and  cir- 
cling the  whole  and  enclosing  it  as  a  lover  might 
hold  and  guard  the  lady  of  his  choice,  were  tall  trees 
that  surrounded  flowers  such  as  even  in  Sorrento 
she  had  never  seen.  There  were  roses  everywhere, 
and  tall  rows  of  lilies  whose  heads  swung  gently  in 
the  breeze  as  though  they  bowed  a  welcome  to  her. 
There  were  flowers  she  barely  knew  by  name  and 
some  that  she  had  never  seen  before,  all  in  a  profu- 
sion that  would  have  taxed  the  eye  and  brain,  had 
not  the  perfect  setting  and  the  carefully  selected 
kinds  and  colors  mingling,  showed  the  hand  of  a 
master  workman  in  his  art.  She  had  been  to  Pasa- 
dena and  had  walked  the  country  roads  near  Naples 
in  the  spring;  she  had  gone  where  tourists  go  and 

218 


THE   SANCTUARY 


had  walked  through  the  stately  gardens  that  are  the 
pride  of  England.  She  had  seen  the  Alpine 
meadows  in  their  bloom,  but  nowhere  had  she  ever 
looked  on  anything  like  this.  Quite  suddenly  and 
irrelevantly  she  thought  of  the  Anchorage  and  the 
garden  there.  Once  she  had  prided  herself  on  it  — 
on  the  interest  and  the  time  and  Thomas's  skill  that 
had  been  lavished  to  make  it  a  thing  of  beauty  and 
renown,  and  now,  here  in  a  far  off  almost  unknown 
island  in  the  Mediterranean,  she  was  looking  on  a 
sight  she  had  not  dreamed  existed.  When  she  com- 
pared the  Anchorage  garden  to  this,  a  flush  almost 
of  shame  dyed  her  cheeks.  She  did  not  know  until 
afterwards  all  the  wonder  of  that  garden,  of  its  ex- 
panse of  over  seven  acres,  the  winding  paths  that 
led  from  beauty  to  beauty,  of  the  rarity  of  the 
flowers  it  produced  —  the  immensity  of  its  yield. 
She  only  saw  just  then  the  thing  as  a  vague  whole, 
too  wonderful  for  analysis  in  detail,  the  shining 
whiteness  of  the  terraced  steps,  the  warm  spring  sun 
of  southern  Europe  lying  over  all,  and  near-by,  in 
the  grateful  shadow  of  a  tree  two  centuries  old,  an 
old  man  asleep. 

By  and  by  her  clasped  hands  came  up  to  her 
breast  in  a  quick  impulsive  gesture. 

"  Ah,"  she  breathed. 

The  boy  Anthony  moved  a  little  nearer  to  her 
side.  Like  hers,  his  gaze  rested  on  the  scene  ahead. 
It  was  always  new  to  him  —  the  wonder  and  the 
loveliness  of  it  —  but  the  keen  surprise  in  his  eyes 
was  lacking.  He  looked  out  over  the  wide  flowering 

219 


THE   SANCTUARY 


acres,  the  winding  walks,  the  tall  hedges,  as  though 
he  looked  upon  a  familiar  thing.  Presently  his  eyes 
came  back  to  the  old  man  asleep  in  the  shadow  of 
the  tree. 

"  It  is  my  grandfather  Giovanni,  Mademoiselle. 
He  has  been  the  head  gardener  here  for  nearly  fifty 
years.  Shall  I  waken  him  and  ask  him  to  show  you 
the  part  you  cannot  see  from  here  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  Anthony,  do  not  waken  him.  He  looks 
tired  and  —  and  he  might  be  angry  that  you  brought 
a  stranger  here." 

The  boy  threw  back  his  head  and  gave  a  low 
laugh. 

"  I  shall  tell  him,  Mademoiselle,  that  you  are  a 
friend  of  the  good  Father's,  that  you  are  a  friend 
of  mine." 

The  words  were  said  without  boast,  as  though  he 
were  stating  an  unalterable  fact,  as  though  the 
glories  of  the  garden  were  his  by  right. 

She  hardly  seemed  to  hear  him.  Slowly  she  be- 
gan to  walk  down  one  of  the  winding  paths. 

"  Wonderful,"  she  breathed. 

The  boy  kept  step  beside  her. 

"  But,  yes,  Mademoiselle,  the  most  wonderful 
thing  in  all  the  world  but  one  —  "  he  broke  off.  The 
laughing  mood  had  passed  and  the  strange  earnest- 
ness had  crept  across  the  young  face  once  more  and 
rested  in  his  eyes. 

Blair  Martin  looked  around  her  slowly. 

"  What  can  be  more  wonderful  than  this  ?  "  she 
spoke  rather  to  herself  than  to  the  boy. 

220 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  St.  Michael's,  Mademoiselle." 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  child  at  her  side. 

She  started  and  instinctively  followed  his  gaze. 
Further  up  the  slope,  behind  the  great  chateau,  rose 
the  white  stones  of  St.  Michael's.  The  tall  spire 
topped  by  the  gold  cross  was  gleaming  in  the  sun. 

"  I  can  bring  you  to  the  chateau  garden,  Made- 
moiselle, but  I  cannot  take  you  to  St.  Michael's. 
No  one  goes  there,  none  of  the  children,  Mademoi- 
selle, unless  the  good  Father  is  along.  He  only  has 
the  key." 

She  stopped  suddenly  in  her  walk.  To  the  right 
of  her  lay  a  bed  of  violets.  Suddenly  she  was  on 
her  knees  beside  them,  her  mouth  working  strangely. 
She  had  come  so  far  to  see  the  violets  bloom  again. 
.  .  .  She  did  not  attempt  to  pick  any  but  she  re- 
mained stooping  there  for  a  little  while  and  she 
caressed  them  softly.  By  and  by  she  became  aware 
that  the  boy  was  regarding  her  wonderingly.  She 
rose  and  resumed  her  walk  and  tried  to  speak  in 
her  natural  tone  of  voice. 

"  The  good  Father  told  me  there  were  two  keys 
to  St.  Michael's,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  Mademoiselle,  but  our  Comtesse,  our  Great 
Lady  and  Chatelaine  of  the  Island  never  comes  with 
the  other  key,  although  I  have  waited  —  " 

Something  in  the  boy's  voice  made  Blair  Martin 
turn  and  look  at  him  quickly,  and  she  forgot  the 
violets  and  the  burning  memories.  .  .  . 

"  You  know  the  Comtesse,  Anthony  ?  " 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

221 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  No,  Mademoiselle,  I  was  born  after  she  left  the 
Island  —  yet  —  " 

He  broke  off  and  in  silence  she  waited.  Her 
heart  had  begun  to  beat  violently.  Why,  she  could 
not  have  told. 

They  came  to  an  unexpected  ending  of  the  wind- 
ing path  and  stood  on  a  ledge  of  rock  whose  sheer 
sides  ran  down  to  meet  the  sea.  An  odd  feeling  of 
faintness  crept  over  her,  and  ashamed  almost  to 
acknowledge  it  to  herself,  she  sat  down  on  the  grass 
and  leaned  her  back  against  a  big  tree.  Her  eyes 
rested  on  the  wide  blue  sea  below,  and  mechanically 
she  counted  the  fishing  boats  within  the  radius  of 
her  vision.  Her  mind,  though,  was  keenly  alert  to 
what  the  boy  was  saying. 

"  Yet  what,  Anthony  ?  " 

He  sat  down  at  a  respectful  distance  from  her 
and  began  to  braid  some  strips  of  grass. 

"  It  is  foolish,  Mademoiselle,  is  it  not,  yet  some- 
times it  seems  to  me  I  have  known  and  seen  the 
Comtesse.  Sometimes  I  dream  of  her  at  night. 
Sometimes  I  pray  for  her  at  mass." 

"Why,  Anthony?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Mademoiselle,  except  that  she 
must  be  very  lonely  so  long  away  from  her  people 
and  her  home."  He  spoke  in  a  shy  constrained  man- 
ner foreign  to  him. 

"Why  does  she  not  come  back,  Anthony?" 

The  boy  Anthony  shook  his  head. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said.  "  There  is  so  much 
I  do  not  understand.  Sometimes  I  ask  the  good 

222 


THE   SANCTUARY 


Father  about  it,  but  he  only  pats  my  head  and  looks 
down  on  me  with  his  kind  eyes.  '  She  is  away, 
Anthony,'  he  tells  me,  '  far  away.  Some  day  she 
may  come  back  to  us  and  the  flag  will  fly  again  from 
the  chateau  turret.  Until  then  we  can  only  pray.' 
So  I  pray,  Mademoiselle." 

"  And  Giovanni  —  your  grandfather  —  does  he 
not  know  ?  " 

The  boy  turned  two  grave  eyes  on  her. 

"  Very  likely,  Mademoiselle.  My  grandfather 
has  worked  for  the  Counts  de  Grandcoeur  for  fifty 
years.  Yet  he  says  nothing,  and  I  would  not  ask, 
since  the  good  Father  knows  and  does  not  tell.  But 
I  dream  of  her  at  night,"  he  added  again. 

"  What  do  you  dream  of  her?  " 

The  boy  laid  down  the  bit  of  braided  grass  and 
leaned  forward,  his  elbow  on  his  knee,  his  chin  in 
his  hand,  and  looked  out  to  sea.  He  spoke  slowly, 
yet  a  strange  fire  and  longing  was  in  his  voice. 

"  I  dream,  Mademoiselle,  of  a  great  lady  dressed 
in  pale,  pale  blue  and  gold  —  they  are  the  colors  of 
the  flag,  the  good  Father  says  —  and  she  comes  to 
me  and  smooths  my  hair  and  smiles,  and  I  —  I  kiss 
her  hand." 

He  stopped  as  though  all  had  been  said  and  stared 
out  across  the  waters.  Far  in  the  distance  around 
the  curve  in  the  coast,  the  dim  outlines  of  Marseilles 
lay.  She  did  not  smile  at  his  fancies,  but  she  won- 
dered at  the  sense  of  mystery  surrounding  him.  He 
sat  looking  toward  the  dim  outline  of  the  great  city, 
and  it  did  not  draw  him  with  its  charm  of  the  un- 

223 


THE   SANCTUARY 


known  as  it  might  have  drawn  another  little  peasant 
boy  of  his  age.  Instead  he  dreamed  of  a  dream  lady 
in  palest  blue  and  gold  —  a  great  lady  of  a  great 
estate  whose  hand  he  kissed.  .  .  . 

She  half  turned  and  looked  back  over  the  still 
garden.  On  an  old  sun  dial  near  at  hand  two  birds 
perched  —  a  linnet  and  its  mate  —  and  as  she  looked 
the  male  bird  uttered  one  sweet  long  note.  It 
seemed  to  call  to  her  across  miles  of  space,  and  she 
rose  suddenly  to  her  feet,  her  hand  pressed  to  her 
heart  as  if  in  pain. 

She  leaned  over  the  boy  Anthony,  whose  dream- 
ing eyes  still  rested  on  the  dim  outlines  of  Mar- 
seilles, as  though  from  the  Marseilles  the  great  lady 
of  his  dreams  might  come.  She  touched  him  on  the 
arm. 

"  Let  us  go,"  she  said  quickly. 


224 


VII. 

THE  days  slipped  into  weeks,  and  except  for 
the  increasing  warmth  of  the  sun  and  the 
growth  of  the  vineyards  in  the  valleys,  which 
Blair  Martin  learned  to  watch  with  as  much  interest 
as  every  man,  woman  and  child  on  the  Island,  time 
might  have  stood  still.  She  wrote  to  Hannah  every 
week,  and  every  week  hesitated  to  recall  her.  Han- 
nah in  far  away  Devonshire  used  to  read  and  re-read 
the  letters  wonderingly.  It  was  a  mystery  to  the 
old  woman  how  her  mistress  had  gotten  along  alone 
during  the  last  month,  and  how  the  millionaire's 
daughter  she  had  known  since  a  slip  of  a  girl,  reared 
in  the  lap  of  luxury,  could  endure  the  limitations  and 
privations  of  Toinette's  peasant  cottage,  the  quiet 
monotonous  life  lived  at  the  Island.  That  her  mis- 
tress was  happier  than  she  had  been  since  the  mill 
disaster  —  since  the  few  visits  at  the  Anchorage 
of  Mr.  Stone  —  Hannah  could  tell  by  the  tone  of 
Blair  Martin's  letters.  She  herself  was  more  con- 
tented than  she  ever  would  have  thought  possible 
separated  from  the  lady  that  she  served.  That  her 
lady  would  sooner  or  later  feel  the  need  for  her  and 
send  for  her,  Hannah  never  doubted.  Meanwhile, 
she  enjoyed  the  first  faint  marks  of  spring  in  Devon- 
shire, the  customs  and  the  dialect  she  had  not  seen 
or  heard  since  a  child. 

225 


THE   SANCTUARY 


With  a  hospitality  as  simple  as  it  was  sincere,  the 
people  of  the  Island  shared  their  best  with  the  rich 
American,  and  she  drank  deep  of  it  as  a  thirsty 
traveler  drinks  some  cool  refreshing  draught  after 
the  travel  and  the  desert's  heat.  Her  moods  were 
many,  and  the  three  she  knew  best  —  Lamore,  Toi- 
nette,  and  the  boy  Anthony  —  bore  with  her  with  a 
patience  the  full  extent  of  which  she  never  realized 
until  years  later.  It  was  perhaps  to  Lamore  that 
she  most  often  turned  when  the  seeming  cruelties  of 
life  oppressed  her,  but  even  with  Lamore  she  never 
ventured  confidences,  and  he  never  attempted  to 
break  through  the  wall  of  her  reserve.  She  was 
dimly  conscious  that  when  she  was  weary  in  body 
and  in  mind,  his  calm  brought  her  rest.  When  the 
brain  of  her  and  the  heart  of  her  dwelt  on  the  in- 
justices and  questioned  the  mercy  of  the  All-Per- 
vading Force,  his  sane  judgment  and  wise  philos- 
ophy, for  the  time  at  least,  stilled  her  questionings 
and  brought  her  peace.  When  the  woman  in  her 
yearned  for  more  than  she  had,  his  sympathy,  deep 
and  tender,  soothed  her,  and  instinctively  she  grew 
to  feel  that  once  in  his  life  he  had  suffered  with  the 
human  in  him  as  she  was  suffering  now.  He  grew 
to  be  a  type  to  her  of  high  spiritual  endeavor,  as 
long  ago  Stone  had  grown  to  be  a  type  of  all  she 
had  ever  dreamed  of  in  the  present  humanity  of 
man.  He  was  at  once  an  interest  and  an  inspiration 
in  her  life  and  she  hardly  acknowledged  to  herself 
the  full  force  of  what  his  personality  meant  to  her. 
As  if  conscious  of  her  need  of  him,  Lamore  joined 

226 


^  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

her  more  often  in  her  walks  and  so  apparently  un- 
expected were  the  meetings,  that  Blair  Martin  never 
guessed  how  carefully  they  had  been  planned. 

Once,  alone,  she  climbed  the  winding  road  again 
and  lingered  at  the  gate  that  led  to  the  chateau  gar- 
den. She  did  not  attempt  to  enter  —  just  why  she 
could  not  have  told.  By  and  by  she  rose  from  the 
big  boulder  on  which  she  had  been  sitting  and  list- 
lessly continued  up  the  side  of  the  cliff.  She  had  no 
objective  point  in  view.  She  only  knew  that  she 
was  tired  —  more  tired  in  heart  and  brain  than  in 
the  body  —  and  that  any  extra  physical  exertion 
helped  her.  The  fruitlessness  of  being,  oppressed 
her,  and  with  a  yearning  intense  and  not  to  be 
denied,  she  longed  for  some  word  from  Stone.  Not 
since  she  had  been  at  the  Island  had  she  walked  the 
Dream  Bridge  with  him  —  seen  even  that  dim  sem- 
blance of  his  face,  and  yet  there  had  been  times  when 
Stone  had  seemed  nearer  to  her  here  than  anywhere 
she  had  ever  been.  Sometimes  she  wondered  if  it 
was  the  hope  of  such  few  recurring  moments  that 
kept  her  lingering  at  the  Island.  The  road  grew 
steeper  and  she  found  walking  difficult.  Few  marks 
of  carriage  or  wagon  wheels  broke  the  surface,  but 
to  one  side  through  the  shaded  woods  she  came  upon 
a  little  well  worn  path.  Not  stopping  to  question 
whither  it  led,  and  only  conscious  that  it  offered  less 
resistance  to  her  tired  feet,  she  turned  into  it  and 
followed  it  to  its  end.  Its  way  led  through  deep 
woods  that  lay  still  and  cool  around  her,  and  the 
darkness  of  the  narrow  path  was  broken  every  little 

227 


while  with  shafts  filtering  through  from  the  warm 
sunshine  overhead.  To  the  left  some  birds  were 
singing,  and  their  song  and  the  light  footfall  of  her 
feet  were  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the  silence. 
After  a  little  a  strange  peace  began  to  creep  into 
her  heart,  as  turbulent  waters  suddenly  become 
stilled  as  they  grow  deeper  and  approach  the  sea. 
And  then  it  was  that  there  came  to  her  —  full, 
strong  and  mellow  —  the  most  wonderful  music  that 
she  had  ever  heard.  For  a  moment  she  stood  still 
and  held  her  breath,  as  a  child  who  hears  some 
sound  of  a  fairyland  long  dreamed  and  read  of,  and 
something  of  the  child-wonder  crept  into  her  deep 
eyes  as  she  listened. 

"  It  is  some  one  playing  the  organ  at  St. 
Michael's,"  she  said  at  last,  and  she  did  not  know 
she  spoke  aloud.  By  and  by  she  moved  toward  the 
sound,  more  slowly  and  with  lighter  footfall,  as 
though  afraid  she  might  miss  one  cadence,  or  awa- 
ken from  a  dream.  After  a  little  the  woods  thinned 
on  either  side  as  she  walked.  To  the  left  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  blue  sea  far  below,  and  on  the  right  a 
gleaming  mass  of  stone  which  she  knew  to  be  St. 
Michael's.  On  the  edge  of  the  clearing  she  saw  it 
fully  —  that  great  memorial  chapel  so  full  of  mys- 
tery and  of  beauty,  and  almost  as  a  thing  afraid  she 
crept  across  the  space  that  divided  the  outskirts  of 
the  woods  from  St.  Michael's,  and  stood  in  the 
shadow  of  a  side  doorway  listening.  ...  At  first 
she  was  acutely  conscious  of  her  own  presence  there, 
and  the  sense  of  her  own  insignificance  —  one  small 

228 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

and  finite  thing  —  in  the  shadow  of  that  great  pile 
of  marble,  overwhelmed  her.  Then  she  forgot  all 
except  the  music  and  she  listened  until  her  whole 
body  was  one  vibration  of  sound.  Her  brain 
throbbed  to  it,  her  heart  beat  to  it,  her  spirit  steeped 
itself  in  it  until  it  seemed  to  her  she  could  bear  it  no 
longer,  and  she  turned  and  leaned  against  the  carved 
marble  of  the  entrance,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands. 
By  and  by  the  strange  peace  she  had  felt  in  the 
woods  stole  over  her  and  she  raised  her  white  face 
from  her  hands  and  stared  out  across  the  clearing 
to  the  open  sea.  The  music  rose  and  fell  and  it 
seemed  to  her  its  vibrations  throbbed  in  the  air  in 
front  of  her,  a  tangible  thing.  Little  by  little  they 
seemed  to  gather  into  a  cloud  and  as  she  looked  the 
Dream  Bridge  formed  before  her.  She  was  stepping 
on  it  now  and  from  the  other  end  Stone  was  coming 
to  meet  her  as  he  had  met  her  before,  but  to-day  his 
face  was  different  than  she  had  ever  seen  it.  All 
weariness  and  anxiety  and  sorrow  and  passion  had 
passed  from  it  and  it  shone  out  grave,  triumphant, 
and  serene,  and  when  he  got  to  her  he  held  out  his 
arms  and  folded  her  to  him  with  a  love  that  claimed 
her  as  separate  and  distinct  from  sex  and  time  and 
space.  Around  them  and  above  them  and  made  of 
the  Bridge  on  which  they  stood,  was  the  music  of 
St.  Michael's.  .  .  .  Slowly  the  cloud  was  dissipated. 
She  could  feel  it  going  and  she  clung  on  to  it  pas- 
sionately knowing  the  emptiness  of  the  awakening. 
Then  once  more  she  stood  in  the  shadow  of  St. 
Michael's  looking  out  across  the  clearing  to  the  sea. 

229 


THE   SANCTUARY 


One  great  sonorous  chord  greeted  her  awakening, 
then  silence,  and  Gounod's  Mass  was  ended. 

She  crouched  down  on  the  stone  floor,  the  cold- 
ness of  it  bringing  back  to  her  the  realities  of  life, 
and  she  lay  there,  her  spirit  crushed  and  broken. 
By  and  by  she  was  conscious  of  a  key  being  turned 
in  a  lock,  the  opening  of  a  door,  and  she  rose  sud- 
denly to  her  feet.  In  the  doorway  stood  Pierre 
Lamore.  He  did  not  show  any  surprise  at  her 
being  there,  and  he  answered  her  disjointed  ques- 
tions in  a  calm  and  natural  voice  that  at  once  con- 
trolled and  soothed  her. 

"  It  was  I  —  Mademoiselle  —  I  come  when  I  can 
and  practise  on  the  organ." 

"I  —  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  a  musician," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice  as  she  watched  him  relock  the 
inner  door  and  walked  by  him  as  he  began  the  de- 
scent. 

"  I  studied  long  ago  while  a  boy  in  Germany. 
Through  all  the  grave  perplexities  and  vicissitudes 
of  the  years,  it  has  sustained  me,  Mademoiselle." 

It  was  the  only  allusion  she  remembered  that  he 
had  made  to  his  own  life,  and  a  strange  new  liking 
for  him  went  out  from  her  as  for  a  comrade  who 
had  known  distress. 

She  glanced  back  over  her  shoulder  at  the  gleam- 
ing stones  of  St.  Michael's. 

"  It  is  a  wonderful  organ,  Father,"  she  said  at 
length. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  finest  in  all  France,"  said  La- 

230 


THE   SANCTUARY 


more,  and  he  spoke  as  a  connoisseur.  "  It  is  a  great 
privilege  to  play  there,  Mademoiselle." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  It  was  not  altogether  the  organ,  Father.  Where 
in  Germany  did  you  learn  that  touch?  And  the 
Mass  —  I  have  heard  the  Gounod  Mass  in  America 
—  in  most  of  the  big  cathedrals  of  Europe  —  and 
never  like  that  —  "  she  broke  off.  Henceforth  could 
she  ever  separate  the  Dream  Bridge  and  the  Mass  of 
Gounod,  she  wondered. 

He  helped  her  in  silence  over  the  big  boulder  on 
which  earlier  in  the  day  she  had  rested  in  her  ascent. 
Neither  of  them  looked  toward  the  wicket  gate  as 
they  passed. 

"  The  mysteries  of  music,  Mademoiselle  !  Who 
shall  fathom  them?  Some  soul  perhaps  born  from 
other  worlds  than  ours,  with  the  experiences,  the 
pains,  the  joys,  the  loves,  of  other  existences  than 
those  of  which  we  are  conscious." 

She  did  not  answer  and  together  they  walked  on 
in  silence,  he  in  a  grave  revery,  she  vainly  trying  to 
soar  again  to  those  heights  that  for  a  moment  she 
had  touched  on  the  threshold  of  St.  Michael's. 

"  But  your  mysteries  —  your  mysteries  of  faith  — 
what  is  there  in  them  that  one  can  take  for  common 
life  and  needs  ?  "  She  spoke  slowly,  finally. 

Lamore  stopped  in  his  walk  and  smiled.  He 
looked  out  across  the  sea.  The  blue  was  turning  to 
a  somber  gray;  the  sun  was  hidden  by  great 
clouds. 

"  Who  is  there  of  us,"  he  questioned,  "  that  knows 

231 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

what  a  sunset  is  —  what  it  is  that  makes  that  clear 
splendor,  or  the  glory  of  a  child's  face  in  sleep,  or  — 
the  look  of  love?  But,  Mademoiselle,  do  we  ques- 
tion either  the  splendor  or  the  glory?  And  can  we, 
of  whatever  race  or  creed,  spare  the  beauty  and  the 
power?  Shall  finite  fathom  Infinity?  " 

She  did  not  answer  but  he  saw  that  the  hand  she 
held  above  her  eyes  to  shade  them  trembled. 

The  moments  passed  and  grew  into  long  minutes 
and  the  silence  of  nature  and  of  human  speech  was 
there.  Her  eyes,  still  shaded,  looked  out  across  the 
stretch  of  waters  gray  and  cold,  and  on  the  lowering 
sky.  On  the  summit,  at  St.  Michael's,  wrapped  in 
the  music,  wrapped  in  the  mystery  of  the  Dream 
Bridge,  there  had  been  light  and  peace  and  warmth ; 
but  here,  down  near  the  base,  on  the  edge  of  the 
homeward  road,  were  shadows  gray  and  cold.  She 
turned  with  the  instinct  of  a  wounded  thing  that 
wants  to  be  alone. 

"  I  am  going  now,"  she  said. 

He  took  her  offered  hand  with  an  understanding 
of  her  need,  and  he  looked  down  on  it  critically  for 
the  moment  that  it  rested  in  his  own.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful hand,  but  oddly  shaped,  with  the  broad  palm 
of  practical  benevolence  and  the  slender  fingers  of 
the  lover  of  all  that  is  beautiful  in  life  as  well  as  art. 
It  lay  in  his  own  quite  listless  as  though  uncertain 
of  the  task  expected  of  it.  Then  with  the  simple 
dignity  of  the  birth  and  breeding  of  his  race  that 
was  his  before  he  was  either  a  soldier  or  a  priest,  his 
head  inclined  above  it. 

232 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  Au  revoir,  Mademoiselle." 

He  stood  where  she  had  left  him  on  the  rock, 
watching  her  pick  her  way  among  them  until  she 
reached  the  main  road,  that,  winding  by  the  sea, 
led  back  to  Toinette's  cottage. 

"  Only  a  few  grains  for  the  field  as  yet,"  he 
thought,  "  since  it  is  not  ready  for  the  sowing  —  " 

Suddenly  he  raised  his  head  expectantly,  and  as 
he  waited  in  the  solitude  and  silence,  a  light  crept 
across  his  face  and  lingered  there  before  it  slowly 
faded.  He  spoke  then  as  one  answering  a  familiar 
unseen  voice. 

"  '  Feed  thou  my  lambs  !  '  Aye,  Master  —  Gra- 
cious Lord  —  yet  at  first  we  give  but  crumbs  to  the 
starving  lest  they  perish  with  the  surfeit.  Hast 
Thou  not  said  our  daily  bread  ?  " 

Slowly  he  stepped  from  the  crags  that  lay  at  the 
base  of  St.  Michael's,  and  silently  and  unseen,  fol- 
lowed the  road  winding  by  the  sea  where,  in  the  dis- 
tance, Blair  Martin  walked  alone. 

All  through  the  long  hours  of  the  afternoon  the 
sky  became  more  threatening  and  the  sea  more 
somber,  and  with  the  darkness  there  broke  over  the 
Island  such  a  storm  as  it  had  not  known  in  years. 
In  the  scattered  cottages  among  the  vineyards  the 
peasant  women  lighted  their  blessed  candles  and 
prayed,  or  stilled  the  children's  frightened  cries, 
while  the  men  crossed  themselves  as  they  made  their 
way  to  where  their  flocks  were  sheltered  to  see  that 
they  were  secure,  and  thought  with  dread  of  the 

233 


*R  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

vineyards  waiting  for  the  harvest  and  of  the  dawn- 
ing of  the  morning.  In  all  the  darkness  and  the 
pelting  rain  and  heavy  winds,  the  flickering  of  the 
blessed  candles  and  the  steady  beacon  light  from 
the  spire  of  St.  Michael's  streamed  out  upon  the 
blackness  of  the  night.  All  through  the  night  the 
storm  lasted,  and  Blair  Martin,  kneeling  by  her 
window,  watched  it  unafraid.  The  sound  of 
the  pelting  rain  against  the  glass  that  shook  and 
rattled  with  its  force,  the  slow  tolling  of  St. 
Michael's  bell,  rung  by  Giovanni  to  warn  the  men 
at  sea,  were  to  her  physical  senses  what  Lamore's 
music  earlier  in  the  day  had  been  to  heart  and  spirit, 
and  she  gloried  in  the  passion  and  the  force  of  the 
elements  that  subdued  all  things  to  their  will. 

At  dawn  she  was  still  kneeling  there,  watching  the 
storm  subside  and  waiting  for  the  light,  half  fearful 
of  what  it  might  reveal.  By  and  by  the  light  came, 
and  with  it  the  sun  that  looked  down  upon  the  soak- 
ing earth.  The  vineyards,  sheltered  in  the  valleys, 
had  been  but  little  harmed,  but  some  of  the  great 
trees  on  the  cliff  side  had  been  laid  low,  their 
strength  of  slow  long  centuries  of  growth  worsted 
in  the  struggle  of  the  night.  With  the  coming  of 
the  dawn  and  the  sun,  the  light  upon  St.  Michael's 
steeple  had  gone  out.  She  could  see  it  —  the  steeple 
—  the  slender  white  beauty  of  it  pointing  heaven- 
ward, a  type  of  the  Eternal  that  endures  when  things 
transitory  are  destroyed  and  forgotten  with  the 
ceasing  of  time.  Then  slowly  her  eyes  traveled  to 
the  chateau  standing  in  its  shadow,  and  with  a  quick 

234 


3§  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

cry  she  rose  suddenly  from  her  knees.  From  the 
staff  on  the  turret  a  flag  spread  itself  to  the  morn- 
ing breeze;  she  could  see  it  where  she  stood  —  a 
gold  cross  upon  an  azure  field. 


END  OF   BOOK   TWO. 


235 


BOOK  THREE 
THE  TEMPLE'S  STEPS 


I. 

STONE  took  the  midnight  train  to  Montreal. 
All  night  he  lay  awake  and  the  dull  rumble 
of  the  iron  wheels  kept  time  to  the  grinding 
tumult  in  his  brain.  One  by  one  the  events  of  his 
life  shaped  themselves  from  out  of  the  confusion  and 
one  by  one  they  passed  in  review  before  him.  At 
first  he  regarded  them  almost  impersonally.  .  .  . 
Later  there  came  to  him  Blair  Martin's  face  as  it 
had  looked  at  him  one  summer  night  under  a  mi- 
mosa tree.  .  .  .  After  that  his  brain  was  a  burning 
sheet  of  memory  and  he  let  it  burn.  .  .  .  Towards 
morning  the  fire  wore  itself  partially  out  and  he  fell 
into  a  fitful  sleep  from  which  he  was  aroused  by  the 
dining-room  porter  calling  through  the  car  the  time 
for  breakfast.  He  stepped  down  from  the  train  into 
the  big  station  of  Montreal  without  haste  and  color- 
less, the  great  scar  showing  out  more  distinctly  by 
contrast.  He  ordered  a  cab  and  was  driven  to  a 
hotel,  where  he  engaged  a  suite  and  bathed  and 
changed  his  clothes.  Then  he  flung  himself  down 
on  a  lounge  near  the  window  and  turned  listless 
troubled  eyes  toward  the  great  river  flowing  below. 
He  was  known  at  the  hotel ;  he  had  often  occupied 
this  suite  before,  he  remembered  with  what  was  al- 
most'a  shudder,  and  there  had  been  times  when  he 

239 


THE   SANCTUARY 


had  lain  here  and  let  the  beauty  of  the  river  view 
soothe  restless  heart  and  nerves.  To-day  it  brought 
little  help  to  him.  By  and  by  he  started  up  and  sat 
on  the  edge  of  the  lounge,  his  hands  on  his  knees, 
staring  straight  ahead  of  him.  Time  was  passing. 
They  would  be  looking  for  him  at  the  Hotel  des 
Invalides  —  wondering  at  his  lack  of  haste  in  com- 
ing. Ah!  those  good  sisters  with  their  temptation 
sheltered  lives  who  were  rejoicing  for  him.  How 
little  did  they  know  or  understand  !  And  the  Other 
—  the  Other  waiting  for  him  !  What  would  that 
meeting  be?  For  years  he  had  come  to  Montreal 
to  see  her  —  or  was  it  that  he  came  to  see  that  she 
lacked  for  nothing?  But  to-day  —  it  would  be  dif- 
ferent. How  was  he  to  bridge  those  seven  years? 
He  could  not.  That  night  in  summer  under  the 
mimosa  tree,  he  knew  that  the  bridge  he  had  so  care- 
fully built  and  guarded,  had  shattered  to  its  fall. 
How  would  she  look  and  act  now  that  an  inscrutable 
Fate  had  seen  fit  to  lift  the  veil?  Once  she  had 
charmed  him  —  she  had  never,  he  remembered,  even 
in  those  long  years,  been  repulsive  to  him  or  awa- 
kened aught  save  pity  in  her  helplessness  —  but  he 
knew  as  by  an  unalterable  decree  that  that  charm 
for  him  was  passed.  He  had  borne  much;  he  had 
forgiven  much,  but  as  yet  he  could  not  forget.  — 
And  he  —  what  was  this  thing  he  was  about  to  do  — 
he  whose  life  had  stood  for  effort  in  the  highest 
and  for  truth  —  was  he,  could  he,  live  this  lie  ? 
God  !  Even  for  a  promise  made  in  the  name  of  that 
God  years  ago,  even  because  she  once  had  borne  a 

240 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

child  for  him,  even  to  shield  her  life  from  further 
bitterness,  ought  he  to  live  the  lie  ?  ...  He  searched 
the  empty  room  with  eyes  that  questioningly  looked 
on  its  inanimate  things,  with  eyes  that  turned  to  the 
river  and  the  sky,  but  neither  the  inanimate  things 
nor  the  sky  gave  back  an  answer. 

By  and  by  he  rose  and  walked  out  to  the  street 
and  began  to  slowly  climb  the  heights  where  the 
Hotel  des  Invalides  stood.  Half  an  hour  later  the 
Mother  Superior,  on  whose  face  rested  a  joy  unself- 
ishly remote,  led  him  into  a  small  private  apartment. 

"  I  will  send  her,  Monsieur.  For  hours  she  has 
been  waiting  —  praying  that  you  might  not  delay." 

After  what  seemed  hours  he  heard  a  step  along 
the  corridor  —  a  light  step,  one  almost  of  youth.  A 
hand  touched  the  door-knob,  hesitated.  .  .  .  He 
drew  a  deep  breath,  watching  the  door,  and  he  no- 
ticed irrelevantly  the  stream  of  sun  motes  crossing 
it.  How  bright  they  were.  .  .  . 

Slowly  the  door  opened.  In  the  sun  motes  stood 
a  woman.  She  was  above  the  average  height  and 
slender.  One  hand  with  delicate  tapering  ringers 
played  a  little  nervously  with  the  knob  of  the  closed 
door.  It  was  her  only  sign  of  confusion.  A  control 
such  as  he  could  never  remember  seeing  in  her  face, 
or  in  the  face  of  any  of  her  countrywomen,  lay  upon 
her;  looked  from  the  grave  brown  eyes  beneath  a 
white  low  forehead.  Her  dark  hair,  very  fine  and 
very  long,  was  twiste'd  in  two  great  braids  and 
wound  and  wound  around  her  head,  a  simple  crown. 
He  remembered  it  was  the  way  she  had  worn  it 

241 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

years  ago.  Her  attitude  expressed  yearning  and 
doubt,  without  fear,  and  there  was  withal  about  her 
a  dignity  that  had  come  to  her  by  right  and  which 
she  could  not  lose. 

The  hand  that  had  been  playing  with  the  knob 
dropped  suddenly  and  was  outstretched.  .  .  .  He 
crossed  the  room  and  took  it  and  pressed  it  to  his 
lips. 

"  Cecile,"  he  said,  and  so  low  did  he  speak  that 
the  woman  waiting  expectant  at  the  doorway  bowed 
her  head  to  hear  the  whisper  of  her  name. 


242 


n. 

FROM  Montreal  he  took  her  to  St.  Anne  de 
Beaupre,  a  quaint  Canadian  town  where 
yearly  pilgrims  come  to  worship  at  the 
shrine.  The  serenity  and  the  influence  of  the  place 
brought  a  strange  peace  to  his  troubled  heart,  al- 
though it  was  for  her  that  he  had  come,  fearful  at 
first  of  the  noise  and  confusion  of  a  large  city  and 
the  effect  it  might  have  upon  her.  She  was  inex- 
pressibly charmed  with  the  place  —  the  quaint 
streets,  the  shrine  itself,  the  tongue  of  France  that 
she  heard  on  every  side.  For  her  a  new  heaven  and 
a  new  earth  had  opened  and  the  dawning  wonder  of 
it  was  reflected  in  her  eyes.  Day  by  day  he  watched 
her  furtively,  scarce  believing  that  the  dream  was 
true,  or  that  the  life  he  was  living  was  real.  If  she 
was  ever  aware  of  his  veiled  scrutiny  she  gave  no 
outward  sign,  but  she  in  her  turn  studied  him  when 
he  least  expected  it,  as  though  from  behind  the  mask 
that  hid  the  real  man  from  her,  she  might  know  him 
as  he  was,  face  to  face.  A  strange  reticence  envel- 
oped her,  which  he  might  have  heeded  more  had  he 
not  been  absorbed  in  thoughts  of  other  things,  not 
the  least  being  the  remembrance  of  her  happiness. 
In  honesty  to  himself,  however,  he  gave  no  more 
than  he  could  and  hide  his  secret  still.  His  thought 

243 


THE   SANCTUARY 


for  her  comfort,  for  her  diversion,  was  unfailing,  as 
was  his  consideration  in  all  things.  Demonstration 
seemed  to  him  the  one  coin  that  he  could  not  pay, 
and  unlike  what  he  had  feared,  she  never  asked  more 
than  he  freely  gave.  If  during  those  hours  of  wait- 
ing after  her  awakening  she  had  looked  for  more, 
if  now  her  heart  hungered  for  more,  at  least  she  gave 
no  sign  and  he  was  satisfied. 

Only  once,  as  by  a  mutual  consent,  had  either  al- 
luded to  those  seven  years  in  Montreal  —  rarely  to 
the  life  lived  together  before  the  shadow  fell.  Once, 
on  leaving  the  church  after  Benediction,  they  walked 
together  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  all  the  long  weeks  she  questioned  him 
as  to  something  outside  of  the  life  they  were  living 
here  together  in  the  small  Canadian  village. 

"  The  organ  at  the  Memorial  Chapel  —  it  has  been 
installed  ?  " 

The  question  without  preface  of  any  kind  startled 
him,  but  he  answered  quietly. 

"  It  was  placed  in  the  Chapel  soon  after  its  com- 
pletion, and  as  you  directed  in  the  plans  you  left. 
It  is  one  of  the  finest  in  all  France." 

"  Ah,  you  have  seen  the  Chapel  ?  You  have  heard 
the  organ  ?  "  she  asked,  a  quick  catch  in  her  voice  — 
yearning  in  her  eyes. 

"  Once,  on  my  last  visit  there,  I  saw  the  Chapel 
completed.  It  is  a  thing  of  wonderful  beauty,  Cecile. 
But  I  did  not  go  inside  nor  hear  the  organ.  I  had 
no  key,"  he  added  with  a  grave  smile. 

"  The  good  Father  —  he  is  still  living  and  he  did 

244 


THE   SANCTUARY 


not  take  you  to  St.  Michael's  —  you  did  not  see  the 
great  altar  window  to  —  the  child?"  To  herself 
her  voice  seemed  remote. 

"  No,  Cecile." 

After  a  while  she  asked: 

"  The  good  Father  —  he  has  grown  much  older?  " 

"  I  saw  him  last  year.  He  seemed  as  when  I  first 
met  him  years  ago,"  said  Stone. 

"  Eternal  youth  is  on  him,"  she  said  softly. 
"  Are  —  are  there  any  changes  at  the  Island  ?  " 

"  So  few  as  not  to  count.  Time  stands  still  there, 
I  think,  Cecile.  Marie  —  the  daughter  of  your  old 
serving-woman  —  is  widowed  and  lives  with  her 
child  at  the  rectory.  Together  they  take  care  of 
Father  Lamore.  Giovanni  still  works  in  the  garden 
• —  that  wonderful  chateau  garden  —  and  each  night 
he  runs  the  light  up  on  the  steeple  of  St.  Michael's 
to  guide  men  on  the  sea  —  each  stormy  night  he  tolls 
the  Chapel  bell  for  them." 

She  stopped  suddenly  in  her  walk  and  she  clasped 
and  unclasped  her  hands. 

"  All  —  all  just  as  I  wanted  it  to  be,"  she  said,  a 
strange  smile  lingering  on  her  lips,  "  just  as  I 
wanted  it  to  be.  I  thank  you  —  oh,  I  thank  you." 

Stone  drew  intricate  patterns  in  the  dust  of  the 
road  with  the  tip  of  his  walking  stick. 

"Don't,"  he  said  hastily;  "don't  thank  me.  I 
was  glad  to  do  what  I  could.  Lamore  helped  me  a 
great  deal.  He  has  a  wonderful  eye  for  the  truly 
great  in  art." 

"  All  the  same,"  she  repeated  to  herself  softly, 

245 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

resuming  her  walk,  "  all  as  I  left  it,  except  the  great 
Chapel  I  never  saw  except  in  drawing  —  as  I  never 
saw  except  in  —  dreams." 

Something  in  her  voice  made  his  heart  beat  more 
rapidly.  He  said  nothing,  and  after  a  while  her 
voice  —  low  and  quiet  —  broke  the  stillness  that  lay 
around  them. 

"  The  seven  years  were  not  all  darkness,  Hector," 
she  said.  "  There  were  minutes  when  I  awoke  — 
when  I  knew,  and  I  would  feel  for  the  gold  key  to 
St.  Michael's  you  once  placed  around  my  neck.  I 
clung  to  it  as  a  drowning  man  clings  to  a  spar,  before 
the  waters  closed  above  me  again  and  the  night 
came  back.  I  knew,  Hector,  for  a  moment  the  day 
you  came  with  it  and  clasped  it  round  my  neck  — 
I  saw  your  face  as  I  see  it  now  and  I  knew  all  the 
promises  had  been  kept.  Some  day  —  will  you  take 
my  key  and  go  to  St.  Michael's  ?  " 

"  Some  day,"  he  said,  and  it  seemed  to  him  his 
heart  and  brain  were  ice. 

On  the  way  back  they  were  overtaken  and  de- 
tained by  a  man  Stone  had  once  met  in  Que- 
bec, who  had  come  over  to  St.  Anne  de  Beaupre 
for  the  day.  Stone  himself  was  not  aware  how 
eagerly  he  inquired  for  news  of  the  outer  world. 
On  reaching  the  strange  little  place  they  had  for  so 
many  weeks  called  home  she  went  directly  to  her 
room,  Stone  lingering  below  to  smoke  a  cigar  and 
talk  in  the  cool  of  the  late  August  evening. 

Once  upstairs  she  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  her 
bed  in  thought.  She  thought  of  many  things,  and 

246 


*£  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

once  Stone's  face  with  its  new  glad  look  of  interest 
flashed  before  her  mind. 

"  His  work  —  all  this  time  he  has  put  it  to  one 
side  —  for  me.  He  must  go  back  to  it.  He  loves 
the  world  —  he  is  a  part  of  it  —  his  work  is  for  it, 
while  I  —  I  only  want  the  Island  —  my  Island  of 
the  Angels  —  the  child  again  and  —  him!  " 

The  long  dusk  fell  and  found  her  still  sitting  there. 
Once  she  put  her  hand  to  her  throat  and  touched  the 
key  that  for  so  long  had  hung  on  the  chain  about  her 
neck. 

"  Ah,  that  I  might  unlock  his  heart  to-night  as 
some  day  I  shall  unlock  the  Chapel  to  the  child !  " 

The  dusk  had  turned  to  darkness  when  Stone  as- 
cended and  lighted  the  candle  near  the  door. 

"  Cecile,  where  are  you?  " 

She  rose  from  her  seat  on  the  bed  and  came 
toward  him.  The  light  from  the  candle  that  he  held 
high,  searching  for  her,  fell  upon  his  face,  and  the 
long  red  disfiguring  scar  stood  out  boldly.  Sud- 
denly she  drew  his  head  down  and  laid  her  lips 
against  it. 

"  Would  that  I  might  so  heal  all  your  wounds, 
mon  cher,"  she  said. 


247 


III. 

THREE  days  later  they  left  St.  Anne  de 
Beaupre  for  the  outside  world  again.  At 
first  Stone  had  remonstrated,  fearing  the 
new  excitement  for  Cecile,  but  on  seeing  her  heart 
apparently  set  on  it,  he  had  at  last  consented.  He 
had  not,  so  intent  had  he  been  in  his  thought  of 
her,  seriously  considered  all  that  that  exodus  from 
the  quiet  life  would  mean.  There  would  be  the 
world  to  face  again,  he  remembered  suddenly  as 
their  train  neared  the  great  city,  and  the  world  to 
be  faced  under  new  conditions.  Little  gossip,  or 
indeed  news  of  any  sort,  had  penetrated  to  St.  Anne 
de  Beaupre,  but  he  had  lived  and  worked  in  the 
world  too  long  —  was  too  prominent  a  figure  in 
that  world  —  not  to  guess  the  discussion  he  had 
undergone  since  he  had  left  it  that  night  months 
ago  for  Montreal.  A  sudden  understanding  of  the 
criticism  he  would  meet  with,  the  forces  against 
which  he  would  have  to  pit  his  will,  came  over  him, 
and  mentally,  as  the  great  train  steamed  along,  he 
began  to  arrange  his  batteries  of  defense  and  the 
weapons  he  would  use.  The  desire  to  do  battle 
with  the  world  again,  lying  dormant  for  a  while, 
stirred  in  him,  and  instinctively  his  hand  went  up 
and  touched  the  scar  on  his  cheek.  Did  he  not 

248 


THE   SANCTUARY 


bear  on  him  the  seal  of  the  world's  work?  He 
thought  of  the  laboring  men  he  had  not  seen  for 
so  long.  .  .  . 

Unnoticed  by  him,  Cecile  from  her  parlor  chair 
watched  his  face  and  read  something  of  his 
thoughts.  She  sighed  a  little,  remembering  the 
quiet  of  St.  Anne  de  Beaupre.  She  had  overruled 
his  every  objection,  declaring  that  she  needed  noth- 
ing but  her  needlwork  and  her  music,  and  what- 
ever diversions  he  could  find  time  from  his  work 
to  spare  for  her.  The  train  steamed  through  the 
outskirts  of  the  city  —  through  the  tenement  ap- 
proach where  hundreds  of  working  men  and 
women  and  squalid,  pale-faced  children  leaned 
from  open  windows  to  catch  the  faint  breeze  of 
the  hot  August  night.  She  sat  forward  in  her 
chair  —  a  throb  of  pity  in  her  heart  as  the  train 
whirled  past.  How  different  —  how  different 
from  her  people  in  the  Island  of  the  Angels  !  Then 
she  remembered  suddenly  that  they  were  his  people 
—  the  people  that  Stone  had  adopted  for  his  own 
and  for  whom  he  lived  and  labored,  and  the  feeling 
of  impersonal  pity  passed  and  was  replaced  by  a 
vague  desire  to  share  something  of  her  inner  self, 
she  had  never  known  before. 

With  infinite  care  Stone  helped  her  from  the 
car  —  all  his  attentions  to  her  were  infinitely  gen- 
tle as  they  were  infinitely  remote  —  and  together 
they  got  into  the  big  touring  car  waiting  for  them 
at  the  curb. 

"  My  wife,  Wilson,"  he  said  briefly,  and  Wilson 

249 


THE   SANCTUARY 


stood  cap  in  hand,  before  climbing  back  into  the 
driver's  seat.  He  had  looked  at  the  lady  as  curi- 
ously as  he  dared.  In  the  months  since  his  master 
had  been  away,  Wilson  had  listened  to  strange 
stories  in  regard  to  him.  They  had  never  been 
uttered  in  his  presence  without  invoking  his  vigor- 
ous protest.  Had  he  not  watched  Mr.  Stone  grow 
up  from  a  boy  in  the  home  of  his  millionaire  uncle, 
John  Stone?  Had  he  not  served  Mr.  Stone  ever 
since  his  return  from  abroad,  long  ago?  Would 
he  not  have  known  if  there  had  been  a  woman  in 
his  life?  Just  the  same  it  was  with  another  fur- 
tive glance  that  he  held  open  the  door  of  the  ton- 
neau  for  Stone  and  his  wife  to  alight  at  the  pretty 
cottage  Stone  had  rented  in  a  quiet  suburb  near  the 
city  limits. 

"  As  thoughtful  as  ever,"  she  had  murmured  on 
the  threshold  of  the  new  home,  looking  out  over 
the  pretty  garden  and  some  distant  hills.  "  I  shall 
be  happy  here,"  she  added,  smiling  softly  as  though 
to  herself.  "  While  you  work  I  shall  have  the 
music  and  the  flowers ;  while  you  work  —  I  shall 
wait  for  you." 

And  still  with  the  smile  upon  her  face  she  en- 
tered and  Stone  closed  the  door. 


250 


IV. 

THE  weeks  slipped  into  months  and  little 
came  to  disturb  the  quiet  in  that  suburban 
home.  The  fall  was  a  long  one  and  Cecile 
rejoiced  in  the  flowers  that  the  frost  spared  to  her 
from  day  to  day.  They  went  out  but  little  and 
they  entertained  still  less,  but  the  few  times  she 
was  seen  in  public  with  him  did  much  to  quiet 
suspicion  and  still  criticism.  Something  in  her 
bearing  and  her  pretty  broken  English  spoke  of 
a  birth  and  a  gentle  breeding  that  none  that  met 
her  could  deny,  and  there  was  withal  a  dignity 
about  her  that  repelled  curious  questionings  of 
any  kind.  It  was  her  wall  of  defense,  and  a  better 
protection  than  even  Stone's  name.  If  she  ever 
suspected  some  of  the  reports  that  had  been  cir- 
culated about  her  and  which  were  slowly  dying  a 
natural  death,  she  gave  no  hint  of  it  to  Stone; 
and  the  knowledge  that  his  secret  marriage  to  her 
years  ago  —  barely  known  outside  of  France  —  and 
of  the  vague  criticism  that  that  lack  of  knowledge 
to  the  world  had  brought  down  upon  her,  made 
Stone  redouble  his  attentions  to  her  and  see  that 
every  wish  he  guessed  at  was  satisfied.  If  he  de- 
clared his  marriage  to  the  world,  the  curious  world 
would  wonder,  conjecture  and  demand  to  know 

251 


THE   SANCTUARY 


where  those  seven  years  of  separation  had  been 
spent.  Could  he  bring  himself  to  let  the  world 
know  the  inner  secret  —  the  curse  of  Cecile's  life  ? 
The  knowledge  was  locked  safe  in  the  Hotel  des 
Invalides,  was  safe  with  Lamore,  and  safe  with 
the  only  other  person  who  knew  it  —  Blair  Mar- 
tin. The  world  —  that  upper  world  of  fashionable 
people  of  whom  he  was  one  and  for  whom  he  cared 
so  little  —  might  conjecture  as  they  would.  They 
would  soon  forget  him  and  his  affairs.  Their 
iwonderings  could  not  hurt  Cecile  in  her  white 
purity.  As  for  the  others  —  the  people  whose 
lives  and  cause  he  had  made  his  own  —  they  ac- 
cepted the  news  of  his  wife  as  they  accepted  every- 
thing in  regard  to  him  —  as  a  thing  above  criti- 
cism and  beyond  question.  Two  or  three  of  the 
labor  leaders  had  seen  her  in  the  suburban  home. 
It  was  there  she  had  met  them  as  a  queen  might 
meet  courtiers  from  a  foreign  power  to  which  she 
was  friendly,  but  whose  customs  and  language  she 
did  not  understand.  There  had  been  no  conde- 
scension in  her  attitude,  only  a  superb  graciousness, 
as  from  one  who  rules  by  right,  that  they  vaguely 
felt  but  could  not  explain  to  themselves.  But  the 
remembrance  of  her  strengthened  Stone's  influence 
in  their  midst. 

Stone  himself  went  back  to  the  work  with  an 
enthusiasm  and  a  passion  that  helped  him  in  the 
new  strange  life  he  lived  —  which  helped  him  to 
forget.  For  the  first  time  in  his  labors  he  came 
out  fully  as  he  was,  as  to  position  and  to  princi- 

252 


THE   SANCTUARY 


pie.  Joe  Blackie,  so  long  a  prominent  figure  in 
labor  meetings,  came  no  more  since  the  mill  ex- 
plosion had  revealed  who  Joe  Blackie  was.  But 
the  foreman  with  the  blackened  hands  that  had 
worked  among  them,  had  blazed  a  trail  for  Hector 
Stone  and  his  work.  They  never  would  have  heard 
him  —  never  followed  him  with  the  same  intense 
loyalty  had  it  not  been  for  the  years  he  had  labored 
with  them  and  shared  their  lives. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  he  drew  more  fully 
to  him  the  upper  class  —  his  own  —  that  for  years 
he  had  endeavored  to  enlist  in  his  cause.  For 
years  he  had  wanted  the  brains,  the  cooperation, 
the  money,  that  his  class  might  give.  It  came  to 
him  now,  and  the  knowledge  of  the  ultimate  attain- 
ment of  a  goal  in  sight,  strengthened  him  as  strong 
wine  strengthens  a  man  who  has  been  through 
some  long  and  bitter  ordeal. 

The  widening  influence  —  the  public  need  for 
him  —  for  his  presence  and  his  speeches,  brought 
new  obligations.  There  were  hours  spent  away 
from  the  pretty  suburban  cottage  now  —  some- 
times trips,  even,  and  a  journey  out  west  of  a  fort- 
night. Twice  Cecile  had  gone  with  him,  but  the 
long  hours  in  the  trains,  the  excitement  of  the 
time,  had  tired  her,  and  she  was  content  thereafter 
to  remain  behind,  and  her  decision  had  been  re- 
ceived by  Stone  with  a  relief  that  was  an  astonish- 
ment to  himself.  His  work  gave  little  time  for 
thought,  but  when  the  thoughts  came,  fight  them 
as  he  would,  they  were  not  of  Cecile  in  the  subur- 

253 


*B  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

ban  home  but  of  another  woman  —  earnest,  gray- 
eyed,  wandering  restlessly  from  place  to  place  in 
foreign  lands. 

Once  he  met  Andrew  Martin.  The  older  man  had 
in  a  shamefaced  way  approached  him  after  one  of 
his  famous  speeches  in  a  neighboring  city.  With- 
out preliminary  comment  of  any  kind  he  had  said 
briefly : 

"  My  taxi  is  waiting  at  the  curb.  Come  with 
me.  I  will  drop  you  at  your  hotel.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

It  seemed  impossible  to  refuse  the  invitation,  and 
Stone  was  not  altogether  sure  that  he  wanted  to 
refuse  it.  Might  not  the  Scotchman  tell  him  news 
for  which  he  hungered? 

To  the  driver  the  Scotchman  said : 

"  The  Kingsford,"  adding  in  a  lower  voice, 
"  the  longest  way  around." 

Then  he  clambered  into  the  taxi  by  Stone. 

At  first  neither  of  them  spoke  and  Stone  looked 
out  of  the  window  on  the  brightly  lighted  thor- 
oughfare. He  was  tired.  His  speech  had  been 
a  long  one  —  had  needed  hours  of  thought  and 
tact,  but  he  was  conscious  that  his  audience  had 
been  good,  and  that  what  he  had  set  forth  in  clear, 
concise  sentences,  in  timely  references  and  accurate 
statistics,  had  been  well  received.  Such  knowledge 
brought  him  the  deepest  sense  of  rest  that  his  life 
knew  just  now. 

The  Scotchman  made  no  allusion  to  his  being 
at  the  meeting  —  what  had  brought  him  to  the 

254 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

neighboring  city  just  at  this  time  —  but  he  broke 
the  silence  first. 

"  I  hear  you  are  married,  Mr.  Stone." 

He  tried  to  make  his  voice  impersonally  polite. 

Stone  did  not  turn  to  him  but  continued  to  stare 
out  upon  the  city  lights. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Martin." 

The  Scotchman  regarded  him  curiously.  He 
wondered  if  he  could  ever  find  this  man  off  his 
guard. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  open  to  congratulations," 
he  said  at  length. 

"  Certainly,  Mr.  Martin.     Thank  you." 

The  silence  fell  again.  Something  in  Stone's 
attitude  forbade  further  questions,  but  it  was  not 
of  Stone's  wife  that  the  Scotchman  was  thinking, 
but  of  Blair's  face  as  he  had  sometimes  seen  it. 

It  was  not  of  Cecile  that  Stone  began  to  think 
as  he  stared  out  of  the  window,  but  of  Blair  Mar- 
tin. If  he  might  hear  some  word  of  her  .  .  .  that 
she  was  well.  .  .  . 

By  and  by,  with  an  effort  of  his  will,  he  forced 
the  memory  of  her  from  him  and  began  to  speak 
on  indifferent  topics.  So  steadily  and  so  well  did  he 
talk  that  the  taxi  drew  up  at  the  Kingsford  long 
before  the  Scotchman  wished.  He  could  find  no 
excuse  however  for  detaining  him  longer,  and  in 
chagrin  he  heard  Stone  thank  him,  saw  him  open 
the  door,  heard  it  close  again. 

They  had  met  and  parted,  and  it  seemed  to  both 
of  them  that  they  had  discussed  every  subject 

255 


THE   SANCTUARY 


under  heaven  except  the  one  of  which  both  longed 
to  hear. 

Stone  returned  late  the  next  night,  and  for  the 
first  time  since  the  days  of  St.  Anne  de  Beaupre, 
Cecile  was  not  awaiting  him.  Her  maid  said  she 
had  gone  to  bed. 

In  his  dressing-room,  on  his  shaving-stand,  he 
found  a  note  from  her  —  a  few  words  of  welcome. 
By  it,  in  the  dim  light,  was  something  he  did  not 
at  first  recognize.  He  switched  on  the  main  lights 
and  for  a  moment  was  blinded  by  the  sudden  glare. 
Then  he  returned  to  the  shaving-stand  and  picked 
the  thing  up  with  a  sharp  exclamation  of  surprise. 
It  was  a  frail  thing  —  an  object  for  a  woman's 
dainty  room  —  the  little  work-bag  that  long  ago 
Blair  Martin  had  sold  him  at  their  first  meeting. 
On  it  was  resting  a  long  white  glove  with  the  faint 
elusive  odor  of  violets  about  it. 

For  a  moment  he  held  it  in  fingers  that  grasped 
it  in  a  tense  hold,  looking  at  the  closed  door  into 
Cecile's  room,  and  in  that  moment  he  realized  why 
she  had  not  been  waiting  to  welcome  him  when 
he  came  home  —  what  the  morrow  must  surely 
bring. 


256 


V. 

IT  was  late  when  he  awoke  the  next  morning 
after  a  night  of  haunting,  troubled  dreams. 
He  dressed  deliberately  —  he  slowly  drank  the 
coffee  that  Wilson  brought  to  his  room  —  he 
walked  its  length  back  and  forth  —  anything  to 
gain  time.  The  crossroads  of  his  life  had  been 
reached.  Which  road  to  take  —  which  ?  The  road 
up  to  now  had  been  an  undividing,  if  rocky  one. 
There  had  never  been  the  question,  which  way  to 
turn.  He  had  followed  the  road  of  his  duty  as 
he  had  seen  it,  and  in  spite  of  the  fatigue  and  sweat 
from  the  toil  and  sorrows  of  others  he  had  carried, 
he  had  clung  in  his  manhood  to  the  ideals  of  his 
youth.  Sometimes,  by  a  turn  in  the  road,  that 
ideal  had  become  lost  or  blurred,  but  he  had  found 
it  again  as  a  beacon  burning  brightly  still,  and  it 
had  led  him  on  and  on,  across  the  morasses  of 
despair,  the  deserts  of  barren  living,  the  few  green 
oases  with  their  springs  of  living  waters  that  he 
remembered  gratefully,  but  —  it  had  always  led 
him.  To-day  it  hung  above  the  crossroads  and  its 
guiding  power  seemed  gone.  His  brain,  that  had 
so  often  and  for  so  long  evolved  schemes  for  the 
helping  of  others'  woes,  had  no  power  or  faculty 
now  to  help  his  own. 

257 


THE   SANCTUARY 


He  went  downstairs  to  the  library  and  began 
to  sort  over  his  mail  —  always  a  heavy  one  —  a 
task  he  allowed  no  one  to  attend  to  but  himself. 
Later  his  secretary  would  come  and  they  would 
go  over  the  correspondence  together,  but  the  first 
reading  was  always  his.  To-day  he  began  to  open 
the  huge  pile  in  a  listless  manner.  Mechanically 
and  with  skill  born  of  long  practice  he  sorted  the 
letters  out  —  invitations  to  speak  —  social  requests 
—  personal  business  affairs  in  connection  with  his 
vast  fortune  —  appeals  for  help  in  mental  difficul- 
ties and  labor  questions,  and  financial  distress. 
The  last  were  by  far  the  most  numerous  and  were 
scrupulously  read  and  thought  over  by  Stone  — 
the  evidently  needy  ones  laid  to  one  side  for  fur- 
ther investigation  on  the  part  of  well  trained 
agents.  Few  were  cast  aside,  and  all  were  read  — 
a  fact  that  had  become  pretty  generally  known  in 
the  under-world  of  the  unfortunates,  and  which  had 
made  Stone,  of  all  the  rich  men  in  America,  the 
most  easy  of  approach. 

To-day,  however,  even  the  letters  failed  to  arouse 
him  or  the  pressing  need  of  work  to  be  gone  over 
and  prepared  before  the  arrival  of  his  secretary. 
He  pushed  back  the  papers  from  him  and  looked 
out  of  the  long  casement  windows  opening  on  the 
garden.  The  garden  lay  white  and  still  wrapped 
in  its  sheet  of  snow.  The  morning  was  a  gray  and 
cold  one.  It  seemed  to  him  the  house  was  unusually 
still.  The  footstep  that  he  knew,  the  voice  so  fa- 
miliar, that  he  half  dreaded,  half  longed  to  hear, 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

was  silenced.  He  wondered  where  Cecile  was  — 
how  she  looked  —  her  thoughts !  If  he  might  read 
her  thoughts,  he  might  better  deal  with  this  thing, 
know  which  of  the  crossroads  to  choose.  .  .  . 

At  eleven  his  secretary  knocked.  Stone's  eyes 
came  back  suddenly  from  the  garden  and  fell  on 
him  as  he  entered.  The  papers  were  barely  touched 
in  front  of  him  —  the  mail  unsorted  and  unopened 
for  the  first  time  in  years. 

The  secretary  entered  with  a  quick,  decisive 
tread  and  started  for  his  desk  in  a  far  corner  of 
the  room. 

"  The  work  will  have  to  wait,  Farnum,  I  am 
not  up  to  it  to-day,"  said  Stone  as  he  slowly  rose 
and  went  to  one  of  the  casement  windows  and 
stood  staring  out. 

"  I  don't  understand,  sir,"  said  Farnum,  won- 
dering if  the  foundations  of  all  things  were  giving 
way  beneath  him.  "  You're  not  ill,  I  hope?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Stone,  "  I  only  know  I 
can't  work  this  morning.  I  don't  suppose  you 
mind  a  holiday?  " 

Farnum  laughed  slightly. 

"  I  wouldn't  as  a  rule,"  he  said  briefly,  "  but 
with  work  like  yours  —  if  one  loses  an  hour  and 
gets  behind,  it's  like  sweeping  back  the  sea." 

"  Yes  —  yes.  I  know  you've  been  grinding 
pretty  hard  of  late,  Farnum.  Perhaps  you'd  better 
see  young  Turner  this  afternoon.  He's  been  well 
recommended  and  I  like  the  boy's  face.  I  fancy 
he'd  make  you  a  pretty  able  assistant  and  like  the 

259 


*S  THE    SANCTUARY  m 

place  better  than  the  one  he  has  now  with  its  long 
hours." 

Farnum  nervously  rubbed  his  chin. 

"  It's  just  as  you  say,  of  course,  Mr.  Stone.  So 
the  work  is  off  for  to-day  ?  "  Then  as  Stone  gave 
a  gesture  of  assent  he  added,  "  Better  go  and  rest, 
sir,  you're  all  tired  out  and  won't  be  fit  for  the 
northwestern  trip  next  month.  I'll  stay  on  here 
and  do  what  I  can." 

"  No,  no,  Farnum,  we're  going  to  close  up  sfiop 
for  to-day,"  said  Stone.  He  had  no  desire  for  any 
outsider  in  the  house  just  then,  not  even  Farnum  — 
who  had  served  him  long  and  well.  "  Go  home 
and  surprise  your  wife  and  take  the  kiddies  coast- 
ing. You'll  work  all  the  better  to-morrow  for  it 
—  and  mind  you  stop  and  see  young  Turner." 

After  Farnum  had  closed  the  library  door  be- 
hind him,  Stone  resumed  his  seat  by  his  desk  and 
began  to  collect  his  correspondence  and  lay  it  in 
neat  piles  in  his  desk.  The  habit  of  order  was 
habitual  with  him. 

The  clock  above  the  big  brick  fireplace  told  him 
it  was  nearing  lunch  time  —  a  meal  that  Cecile 
and  himself  invariably  had  together  when  he  was 
at  home.  He  rose  suddenly  and  without  knowing 
exactly  what  he  did,  went  in  search  of  her. 

He  found  her  in  the  small  conservatory  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  watering  and  pruning  the  flow- 
ers. Her  back  was  to  him  as  he  entered  and  he 
noticed  that  she  did  not  turn  or  look  up. 

"  Luncheon  is  almost  ready,  Cecile." 

260 


THE   SANCTUARY 


He  spoke  in  French  and  never  had  his  voice 
been  kinder.  She  answered  him  in  the  familiar 
tongue  of  her  people,  but  she  made  no  effort  to 
look  up.  Her  manner  was  without  embarrassment, 
and  she  asked  him  many  questions  as  to  his  speech 
—  his  reception  in  the  near-by  city  —  about  the 
comfort  of  his  trip.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  two 
red  spots  that  burned  in  her  usually  white  face, 
and  the  remembrance  of  the  silken  bag  and  long 
white  glove  upstairs  still  resting  on  his  shaving 
stand,  he  would  have  thought  no  change  had  come 
to  her.  Her  very  attitude  was  making  the  thing 
harder,  although  she  was  evidently  exerting  all 
her  powers  to  please  —  to  put  him  at  his  ease. 
He  stood  studying  her  face  as  it  was  bent  over 
the  palms,  wondering  —  wondering  — 

Later  they  had  lunch  together  and  she  poured 
his  tea  for  him  from  a  little  teapot  of  old  Satsuma 
of  exquisite  design.  She  was  gay  —  he  did  not 
know  how  feverish  the  gaiety  was,  nor  how  forced. 
She  played  the  role  she  had  given  to  herself  with 
an  art  that  was  partly  inborn  —  partly  a  charac- 
teristic of  her  nation. 

She  met  his  eyes  now,  and  with  a  start  of  sur- 
prise he  noticed  a  new  fire  in  their  brown  and  melt- 
ing depths.  He  did  not  know  of  the  inner  fire 
that  seemed  slowly  consuming-  her,  but  he  heard 
her  voice,  more  tender  than  ever  in  the  past. 

Luncheon  over,  she  went  to  her  room  to  lie  down. 
She  was  just  recovering  from  a  cold  due  to  the 
unusual  dampness  of  the  winter.  In  January,  when 

261 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Stone  had  suggested  taking  her  south,  she  had 
shaken  her  head,  remembering  his  work.  She 
would  not  go  without  him.  She  simply  evaded 
his  entreaties,  saying  she  preferred  to  remain  at 
home  with  her  music  and  her  flowers. 

He  did  not  see  her  again  until  the  seven  o'clock 
dinner,  when  again  he  sat  opposite  to  her  at  table. 
How  he  had  gotten  through  the  afternoon  he  could 
not  remember.  How  he  endured  that  meal  he  did 
not  know.  With  his  coffee  he  began  his  smoke, 
and  she  left  him  for  the  piano  with  a  backward 
smile.  Of  late  the  smoke  had  made  her  cough 
worse,  and  he,  remembering  it,  had  indulged  in  the 
luxury  even  less  than  formerly,  but  to-night  he 
needed  the  cigar.  He  needed  the  wine  he  had 
taken. 

By  and  by  her  music  reached  him  from  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  hall.  None  of  the  old  skill  had 
been  lost,  he  noticed,  with  those  seven  years  of 
waiting.  The  music,  low,  tender,  elusive  as  a 
dream,  stole  in  to  him  where  he  sat  smoking. 

"  Schubert,"  he  said  softly  to  himself. 

By  and  by  he  heard  her  close  the  great  piano, 
and  cross  the  hall  and  begin  to  mount  the  stairs. 
He  listened  intently  until  he  heard  the  door  of  her 
room  open  and  close.  Then  suddenly  he  rose  to 
his  feet.  The  dull  stupor,  the  irresolution  of  the 
day,  gone.  The  crossroads  stretched  out-  in  front 
of  him,  whichever  way  they  led  —  whichever  he 
chose  —  he  would  play  the  man.  He  might  choose 
wrong  —  might  miss  forever  the  beacon  light  of 

262 


THE   SANCTUARY 


that  ideal  he  had  followed,  but  choose  he  would,  and 
he  was  conscious  that  beneath  the  coldness  that 
gripped  him,  brain,  body  and  heart,  there  burned 
the  flame  of  truth  before  which  he  had  never  failed 
to  bow. 

Not  knowing  what  he  was  to  say  or  how  he  was 
to  say  it,  or  the  consequences  of  what  he  was  about 
to  do,  he  laid  aside  the  half-finished  cigar  and  fol- 
lowed her  upstairs. 

At  her  door  he  knocked,  and  when  her  voice  bade 
him  enter  he  did  so  without  hesitation.  Some- 
thing in  his  face  made  the  red  spots  that  had  burned 
all  day  in  her  own,  suddenly  recede  —  leaving  her 
cheeks  like  wax.  She  steadied  herself  against  the 
back  of  a  chair,  for  a  moment  forgetting  the  role 
she  had  given  to  herself  to  play.  When  he  spoke 
she  forgot  the  role  and  was  herself  —  herself  as 
Stone  had  never  seen  her. 

"  Cecile,  there  is  something  I  want  to  talk  over 
with  you,"  he  said,  and  for  a  moment  something 
in  her  face  frightened  him.  If  this  should  cause 
that  shadow  —  the  darkness  of  the  seven  years 
...  to  descend  on  her  again  ...  if  ... 

Then  he  went  on  resolutely. 

"  Come  with  me  for  a  little  while  into  my  dress- 
ing-room. I  shall  not  detain  you  long." 

He  held  open  the  door  for  her  to  enter.  As  she 
passed  him  her  head  was  a  little  lowered,  her  eyes 
cast  down. 

"  Not  long,"  she  whispered  to  herself,  and  her 
lips  were  colorless. 

263 


VI. 

HE  pulled  forward  a  chair  for  her  to  sit  in 
and  she  took  it  mechanically;  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  him.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  before  her  without  moving,  looking  down  on 
her.  His  look  was  a  question,  but  her  face,  beyond 
its  unusual  paleness,  told  him  nothing. 

He  turned  and  without  further  hesitation  walked 
over  to  his  shaving-stand,  where  the  work-bag  and 
the  white  glove  still  lay. 

"  I  found  these,  here,  in  my  room  last  night," 
he  said  so  quietly  that  he  wondered  at  his  own 
voice.  "  I  suppose  you  found  them  in  my  cam- 
phor chest  and  wondered  at  their  being  there.  I 
owe  you  an  explanation." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  across  the  space  of  the 
room  she  looked  at  him. 

"  Hortense  found  them  when  I  sent  her  to  the 
chest  to  get  your  automobile  coat  to  take  to  the 
northwest  with  you.  You  asked  me  to  see  about 
it,  you  remember.  The  girl  was  called  away  be- 
fore the  things  were  put  back,  and  I  came  in  and 
found  those  on  the  floor.  You  do  not  owe  me  an 
explanation.  After  the  wrong  I  did  you  years 
ago,  you  owe  me  nothing.  If  you  care  to  tell  me 
—  that  is  different.  I  simply  could  not  ask  you 

264 


THE   SANCTUARY 


about  them  as  another  woman  might  have  done, 
and  I  could  not  put  them  back  without  your  know- 
ing that  I  had  found  them.  Do  you  think  you 
understand?  " 

She  had  spoken  dully  —  almost  without  emo- 
tion, and  now  she  half  turned  in  her  chair  and 
looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  darkness,  as 
though  all  had  been  said. 

It  was  not  what  he  had  expected,  remembering 
the  old  days  when  she  had  demanded  every  breath 
be  hers.  It  was  foreign  to  her  bringing  up,  to  the 
station  in  life  in  which  she  had  been  born,  to  the 
characteristics  of  her  countrywomen. 

He  took  the  work-bag  and  the  white  glove  from 
the  shaving-stand  and  carried  them  over  to  a  table 
near  her,  where  he  laid  them  down.  The  glove 
clung  to  his  hand  in  an  almost  human  way. 

"  Whatever  the  past  held  of  sorrow  —  or  wrong, 
Cecile,"  he  said  slowly  and  in  a  low  voice,  "  it 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter  in  hand,  has 
nothing  to  do  with  what  I  owe  you  as  my  wife." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  because 
her  back  was  to  the  light  he  could  not  see  her  face 
distinctly,  only  the  oval  outline  of  it,  the  shining 
eyes,  the  crown  of  dark  and  heavy  hair. 

"  As  you  please,"  she  said.  "  I  only  wanted  you 
to  know  I  had  found  the  things.  I  could  not  de- 
ceive you  —  again." 

"  It  is  best  for  both  of  us  that  I  tell  you,  and 
tell  you  -—  quickly." 

After  it  was  over  and  his  voice  had  ceased,  she 

265 


*ft  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

remained  sitting  where  she  was  —  immovable. 
After  all,  there  had  been  so  little  to  tell  that  was 
tangible,  and  little  to  confess  of  wrong. 

By  and  by  she  rose  and  crept  over  to  the  table 
in  a  timid  way  and  picked  up  the  long  white  glove. 
She  stood  looking  down  at  it  in  silence.  The  rare 
elusive  perfume  stole  up  to  her.  She  recognized 
it  as  a  product  of  her  own  land,  an  extract  of  al- 
most priceless  worth.  In  a  dim  way  and  for  a 
moment  of  time  it  became  associated  with  a  won- 
derful garden  she  had  walked  in  as  a  child,  had 
dreamed  in  as  a  girl,  and  a  carpet  of  violets  that 
bloomed  there.  Then  gently  she  laid  the  long 
glove  down. 

She  turned  and  crossed  the  room  and  stood  by 
the  door,  the  knob  in  her  hand.  Once  she  looked 
at  him,  and  as  though  unconscious  that  he  had  fol- 
lowed her  every  movement  in  agony  and  anxiety 
of  mind,  she  spoke. 

"  Tell  me  again,  Hector.  Perhaps  —  perhaps  I 
did  not  understand  —  you  love  her?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  and  he  could  not  look  at  her. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  staring  straight  ahead 
of  her. 

"  So !  "  she  said,  then  she  opened  the  door  and, 
wraith-like,  slipped  through. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  follow  her.  There  was 
nothing  he  could  say  or  do.  He  had  told  the  truth, 
he  had  spared  neither  her  nor  himself,  and  all  the 
rest  of  life  stretched  out  a  blank. 


266 


VII. 

IT  was  as  though  a  heavy  weight  lay  on  the 
days  that  followed,  and  the  heaviness  in- 
creased until  the  secretaries  and  the  servants 
felt  it.  To  Stone,  his  only  safeguard  lay  in  work, 
and  he  worked  so  feverishly  and  so  long  that  Far- 
num  used  sometimes  to  remonstrate.  Stone  would 
only  shake  his  head  and  remind  his  secretary  that 
the  long  northwestern  tour  was  rapidly  approach- 
ing and  there  was  much  to  get  in  readiness,  much 
to  prepare  for  young  Turner,  who  was  to  be  left 
behind. 

The  relief  of  work  did  not  come  for  Cecile  — 
work  of  the  strenuous  sort  that  had  to  be  done, 
work  that  took  one  out  of  oneself  and  that  brought 
a  certain  relief  and  balm  in  the  knowledge  that 
others  were  being  helped  —  work  that  brought  re- 
lief with  fatigue.  Almost  feverishly  she  worked 
among  the  flowers,  but  little  concentration  of  en- 
ergy was  necessary  in  the  task,  and  thoughts  and 
memories  haunted  the  conservatory.  Then  she 
tried  her  needle.  For  hours  she  sat  in  the  sun- 
shine of  her  window  before  her  embroidery  frame 
and  toiled  at  the  great  frontal  in  gold  thread  and 
azure  she  had  started.  Some  day,  when  the  gold 
threads  were  woven  in,  in  the  finest  art  that  she 

267 


THE   SANCTUARY 


had  learned  at  the  convent  as  a  girl,  when  the 
azure  strands  formed  a  background  that  one  could 
scarcely  tell  from  the  product  of  the  brush,  she 
would  send  the  frontal  to  Pierre  Lamore  for  the 
Memorial  Chapel  to  the  child.  Once  she  paused  at 
the  work,  her  needle  suspended.  Perhaps  she 
would  not  send  it  after  all  —  perhaps  there  were 
other  ways  for  the  frontal  to  reach  St.  Michael's. 
After  that  the  work  at  the  embroidery  frame  took 
on  new  impetus,  and  something  like  the  fire  of  a 
settled  purpose  burned  in  her  eyes.  It  became  hard 
for  her  to  leave  the  gold  threads  and  the  delicately 
colored  skeins  of  silk  even  for  the  daily  outing  in 
the  still  frozen  garden  that  the  doctor  had  said  she 
must  have,  and  for  once  in  her  life  the  art  of  her 
needle  at  the  embroidery  frame  overshadowed  the 
art  of  her  music  at  the  piano. 

The  long-talked-of  and  unexpected  tour  through 
the  northwest  was  fast  approaching,  and  it  seemed 
to  Stone  it  was  the  one  topic  on  which  Cecile 
talked  long  and  well  and  without  reserve.  He  was 
conscious  that  the  separation  would  bring  relief 
to  her  from  a  strain  almost  unbearable,  and  he  was 
too  honest  with  himself  to  doubt  that  the  trip  would 
bring  relief  to  himself  as  well.  It  was  about  this 
time  that  he  tried  to  persuade  her  to  take  Hortense 
and  go  south  for  a  trip.  Lorimer's  last  verdict  on 
the  cough  had  been  anything  but  encouraging. 
For  the  first  time  she  listened  without  remonstrance. 

"  Peirhaps  I  will  think  of  it,"  she  said,  twirling 
around  slowly  on  the  piano  stool  one  evening  after 

268 


THE   SANCTUARY 


dinner,  "  but  you  and  your  nice  old  doctor  are 
geese,  mon  cher."  She  laughed  almost  blithely, 
the  two  bright  spots  burning  in  her  cheeks  again. 

"  Lorimer  is  a  very  able  physician,"  and  Stone 
came  and  leaned  over  the  piano,  a  smile  upon  his 
face.  How  like  her  old  self  Cecile  was  to-night! 
She  was  almost  as  she  was  years  ago  when  a  girl 
at  home  in  France.  He  looked  at  her  intently, 
her  head  slightly  bent,  her  dark  eyes  on  the  ivory 
keys,  and  as  he  looked  she  began  to  play  the  slow 
elusive  dream  piece  of  Schubert's  he  had  heard 
so  often.  He  listened  in  silence  until  it  was  ended, 
a  sudden  swift  admiration  for  her  skill  throbbing 
in  his  heart  —  for  the  art  that  had  existed  sleep- 
ing in  all  its  perfection  through  the  dark  night 
of  the  Montreal  years.  The  Montreal  years  had 
wrought  a  curious  change,  he  had  often  thought. 
They  had  come  and  gone  and  left  the  delicate  oval 
of  her  face  almost  untouched  by  any  line  of  time, 
but  wherever  the  divine  ego  of  her  had  been  while 
her  body  and  her  brain  had  been  in  the  tender 
keeping  of  the  Sisters,  it  had  grown  to  look  with 
calmness  on  the  vicissitudes  of  life,  and  to  weigh 
events  with  an  exact  proportion  as  to  their  relative 
value  with  a  skill  that  sometimes  put  him  to  shame. 
To-night  the  long  years  rolled  back  and  she  seemed 
to  him  to  be  once  more  the  girl  he  had  first  seen 
when,  as  a  midshipman  in  the  flush  of  youth  and 
the  independence  of  a  week's  leave,  he  had  climbed 
the  steep  ascent  to  a  chateau  in  an  island  in  the 
Mediterranean.  With  the  spirit  of  exploration 

269 


THE   SANCTUARY 


strong  upon  him,  he  had  pushed  through  the  wicket 
gate  and  come  on  her  standing  alone  in  the  sun- 
shine of  the  chateau  garden.  .  .  .  She  wore  to- 
night a  dress  of  azure  and  of  gold,  and  he  remem- 
bered suddenly  they  were  the  colors  she  had  worn 
then  —  the  colors  on  the  flag  that  stretched  itself 
exultingly  to  the  breeze  from  the  turret  of  the 
chateau  beyond.  Something  of  the  beauty,  al- 
though remotely  removed  from  the  thrill  of  ex- 
quisite pleasure  the  scene  had  given  him  then,  came 
back  to  him  to-night.  ...  It  had  been  this  piece 
of  Schubert's,  too,  that  he  had  first  heard  her  play. 
Then  something  in  the  texture  of  the  flushed  cheek, 
something  in  the  delicate  tracery  of  the  hands  lying 
inert  upon  the  ivory  keys,  dissipated  the  dreams, 
and  Lorimer's  warning  came  back. 

"  Cecile,"  he  said,  and  something  in  his  voice 
aroused  her  from  the  revery  into  which  she  had 
fallen,  "  I  am  serious  when  I  say  I  want  you  to 
consider  the  Savannah  trip.  Lorimer  says  the 
dampness  of  a  New  England  winter  is  not  desir- 
able and  will  only  increase  the  bronchial  cough.  I 
don't  want  to  alarm  you,  for  there  is  really  no 
cause  for  alarm,  but  —  "  he  broke  off  suddenly, 
conscious  that  Cecile  was  sitting  very  straight  upon 
the  stool,  and  that  all  the  listlessness  had  vanished. 

"  But  what  —  mon  cher?  " 

"  Just  this,  Cecile,"  said  Stone,  more  gently  than 
he  knew,  "  Lorimer  says  there  is  no  serious  trouble 
yet  —  there  may  never  be.  He  says  there  never 
will  be,  in  all  likelihood,  if  you  care  for  yourself  — 

270 


THE   SANCTUARY 


avoid  dampness  and  exposure  and  live  much  in  the 
sunshine.  This  is  one  reason  that  I  want  you  to 
take  the  Savannah  trip." 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  answer.  A  strange 
shadow  crept  around  her  mouth  and  lay  upon  her 
face. 

"  You  are  very  careful  of  me,  Hector,"  she  said 
at  last.  It  was  the  nearest  to  a  reproach  she  had 
uttered  since  her  return  from  Montreal. 

He  said  nothing. 

"  Must  it  be  Savannah  ?  "  she  asked  after  a  little. 
"  Would  no  other  place  suit  you  or  Doctor  Lori- 
mer?" 

"  Ah,  now  you  are  going  to  yield  and  care  for 
yourself.  Is  there  any  other  place  you  would 
rather  go  to  —  Palm  Beach,  perhaps,  or  Asheville, 
in  the  Carolina  mountains?" 

"  I  do  not  know  very  much  about  your  health 
resorts  in  America." 

"  Well,  think  it  over  and  decide  as  soon  as  you 
can.  I  am  sorry  you  have  not  decided  before,  so 
that  I  could  make  the  arrangements  for  you  — 
perhaps  take  you  there  and  see  you  in  good  hands. 
Lorimer  will  advise  you  and  Turner  will  see  to 
your  tickets  and  all  such  arrangements.  He  is  a 
capable  young  fellow.  I  will  speak  to  him  about 
it  in  the  morning  before  I  leave." 

She  opened  her  lips  to  say  something,  then 
closed  them  again.  After  a  while  she  commenced 
to  play  a  bit  of  Brahms.  Again  he  listened  to  her 
in  silence,  and  again  he  wondered  at  the  art  in  her 

271 


*ft  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

frail  body.  Something  in  the  austere  splendor  of 
the  piece  grated  against  his  mood  to-night.  There 
was  little  in  the  music  now  to  recall  Schubert  and 
the  girl  he  had  first  seen  at  the  chateau  in  sun- 
kissed  France.  He  longed  for  the  sound  and  mel- 
ody, the  tender  droop  of  her  head,  the  yielding  of 
her  hand  —  he  wanted  to  see  her  as  she  had  been 
half  an  hour  before.  He  had  grown  used  to  her 
swift  changing  and  varying  moods,  but  to-night 
he  felt  he  could  not  bear  the  change.  Almosti 
harshly  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Play  me  Schubert  again,  Cecile." 

Obediently  and  without  question  she  stopped  in 
the  middle  of  a  splendid  bar  and  began  the  selec- 
tion he  wanted.  As  she  played  he  became  quieted 
and  something  like  peace  came  over  him  again. 

"  Next  year,"  he  said,  "  the  work  will  be  less 
pressing.  Would  you  like  to  take  a  trip  to  — 
France  ?  " 

She  played  softly  now;  as  low  as  her  voice  was 
he  heard  it  distinctly  above  the  tender  music. 

"  Some  day  I  shall  go  back  to  France." 

She  had  left  him  out  in  her  thoughts  and  her 
reckonings,  whether  intentionally  or  not  he  could 
not  say.  The  charm  of  the  music  lingered  with 
him,  for  she  was  playing  Schubert  as  she  had  never 
played  before. 

Once  she  played  the  piece.  Then  she  began  it 
over  again.  Sweet,  appealing,  tender,  accepting 
much,  renouncing  much ;  the  music  called  him  and 
held  him  in  its  spell.  Once  more  she  played  it  — 

272 


THE   SANCTUARY 


this  time  it  was  but  an  echo  so  low,  so  soft,  the 
notes  fell  upon  the  air.  ...  By  and  by  she  rose 
and  closed  the  piano  lid,  a  strange  smile  upon  her 
face. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  gently,  "  I  shall  remember 
Schubert  when  I  am  on  my  trip.  No  one  quite 
interprets  him  as  you  do,  I  think.  When  I  come 
home  you  will  play  for  me  again  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said  evasively,  "  unless  I  have 
gone  south." 

After  she  had  gone  to  her  room  she  stood  by 
the  window  looking  out  upon  the  frozen  garden. 
A  winter  wind,  fierce  and  strong,  blew  past  the 
window  and  rattled  the  sash  and  swayed  the  bare 
branches  of  the  trees.  She  could  see  their  restless 
movements  by  the  light  of  a  pale  waxing  moon. 
By  and  by  she  looked  down  curiously  at  her 
thin  tapering  fingers  —  those  skilful  fingers  that 
wrought  such  beauty  from  the  embroidery  frame, 
such  magic  from  the  instrument  below. 

"  Poor  hands,"  she  said  softly  to  herself,  "  poor 
hands,  that  charm  but  cannot  hold." 


273 


VIII. 

STONE  had  been  gone  almost  a  month.  The 
northwestern  trip  had  expanded  in  its  length 
and  breadth  and  scope.  There  was  much 
ground  ready  for  the  harvest  among  the  wide  roll- 
ing prairies  of  that  upper  land,  and  Stone  was  too 
earnest  and  capable  a  worker  to  leave  unsowed  any 
district  that  might  bear  fruit.  In  Detroit  he  was 
detained  a  week,  and  it  was  while  there  that  de- 
layed mail  reached  him.  There  was  a  short  note 
from  Turner  enclosing  matters  for  his  personal 
consideration,  another  from  his  lawyer  in  regard 
to  some  fruit  farms  in  the  far  west,  a  letter  from 
Cecile,  and  a  foreign  one  from  France  which  he 
recognized  as  from  Pierre  Lamore.  It  was  stained 
and  travel  worn  and  bore  many  marks  of  forward- 
ing by  post.  He  attended  to  the  business  corre- 
spondence first  and  then,  for  some  reason  he  never 
could  explain,  he  rang  for  Farnum,  turned  the 
necessary  work  over  to  him  and  left  orders  that 
he  should  not  be  disturbed.  When  he  had  assured 
himself  that  he  was,  for  a  time  at  least,  quite  safe 
from  intrusion,  he  drew  up  a  chair  to  the  open  fire 
and  sat  down,  the  last  two  letters  in  his  hand.  For 
a  while  he  stared  into  the  high  leaping  flames  in 
silence.  There  were  few  moods  in  his  life  into 

274 


THE   SANCTUARY 


which  the  beauty  and  the  solace  of  an  open  fire 
could  not  creep.  It  had  always  stood  to  him  as  a 
symbol  of  pure  living,  a  test  of  the  Eternal  that 
tries  all  things  in  its  consuming  heat,  separating  the 
gold  from  the  dross. 

For  a  while  he  dreamed  and  saw  strange  pic- 
tures in  the  flames.  Once  he  thought  of  Blair  Mar- 
tin and  wondered  where  she  was.  How  strange 
were  the  circumstances  of  life  that  took  her  so  far 
from  him  —  that  sometimes  gave  her  back  to  him 
so  near.  In  his  life,  since  that  parting  at  the  pier, 
there  had  come  strange  moments  of  calmness  and 
of  something  akin  to  consolation.  Just  what  it 
was  he  did  not  know  —  an  intangible  sense  of  her 
presence,  real  yet  elusive.  The  moments  came  un- 
bidden because  of  self-control. 

After  a  while  he  left  off  looking  at  the  flames 
and  turned  to  the  two  letters  in  his  hand.  How 
odd  it  was  the  same  mail  had  brought  them  to  him 
together,  and  he  vaguely  felt  that  in  some  way 
they  were  connected  with  each  other  and  that  at 
last  after  all  the  months  he  was  to  hear  some  word 
of  Blair  Martin.  His  heart  beat  faster  at  the 
thought. 

He  opened  Pierre  Lamore's  letter  first  and  read 
it  through,  his  hands  trembling  as  they  turned  the 
finely  written  pages. 

The  letter  told  of  Blair  Martin's  arrival  at  the 

Island  —  where  she  was  staying,  how  she  seemed 

and  acted;  of  her  friendship  with  the  boy  Anthony 

-all  the  details  that  Stone  had  hungered  long 

275 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  a* 

to  hear.  There  was  no  allusion  made  to  Cecile 
except  that  he  remembered  her  in  his  prayers  and 
commended  her  to  God  and  the  care  of  the  pitying 
Sisters.  It  was  evident  that  the  joint  letters  that 
he  and  Cecile  had  written  him  from  Canada  and 
later  from  the  suburban  home  had  never  reached 
him,  although  he  mentioned  and  sent  thanks  for 
the  liberal  cheque  that  Stone  had  forwarded  in  both 
their  names  at  Christmas.  He  added  it  would  go 
a  long  way  toward  helping  in  the  repairs  so  neces- 
sary to  the  village  church. 

After  he  had  finished  it,  Stone  sat  with  it  a  long 
while  in  his  hand.  It  was  like  Lamore  to  write  so 
fully  —  Lamore  who  so  instinctively  always  said 
the  right  thing  in  the  right  place.  He  had  almost 
forgotten  the  other  letter,  when,  on  glancing  down 
to  the  floor,  he  saw  it  lying  at  his  feet.  He  stooped 
and  picked  it  up  hastily  and  opened  it. 

He  read  it  through  without  a  tremor  to  reveal 
the  consternation  that  suddenly  took  possession  of 
him.  Once  he  read  it  —  twice  —  thrice  —  and  it 
was  as  though  the  words  written  in  Cecile's  small 
delicate  handwriting  fascinated  him  and  he  could 
not  stop. 

"  MON  CHER  :  —  "  it  ran,  "  When  you  get  this 
I  shall  have  started  on  the  southern  trip  you  and 
that  old  goose,  Lorimer,  seemed  to  think  necessary. 
After  all,  it  is  a  good  excuse  for  what  I  am  about 
to  do  —  without  it  I  could  not  have  gone,  for  as 
intolerable  as  the  last  few  weeks  have  been  I  could 

276 


THE   SANCTUARY 


have  done  nothing  that  would  have  reflected  on 
you.  Lorimer's  insistence  on  the  trip  has  made 
the  matter  right  before  your  world.  Mon  cher, 
I  have  taken  you  at  your  word,  I  have  chosen 
where  I  will  go  to  hunt  out  sunshine  and  health 
for  myself.  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  how  little 
America  held  for  me  —  now  ;  or  how  long,  since 
the  days  at  St.  Anne  de  Beaupre,  I  have  hungered 
for  my  Island  and  my  people?  If  you  have  ever 
guessed  at  it,  if  it  ever  occurred  to  you  the  last 
night  you  were  at  home  and  you  spoke  of  taking 
me  back  to  France  next  year,  you  will  know  why 
I  have  decided  as  I  have.  Hector,  mon  ami,  I 
cannot  wait  for  next  year  nor  for  your  work  to 
be  less  heavy,  as  you  think  it  will.  I  know  you 
and  your  work  (perhaps  your  heart)  better  than 
you  have  ever  dreamed,  although  once  long  ago  I 
wronged  you  so.  Your  work  will  never  grow  less 
heavy,  for  it  is  world-wide  in  its  scope,  and  in 
years  to  come  it  will  take  you  from  your  own  land, 
but  now  your  land  is  calling  for  your  work  as  my 
land  is  calling  for  my  heart.  Your  work  is  here 
—  next  year  your  work  will  be  here  —  and  there 
will  be  no  time  for  pleasuring  in  France.  Once 
long  ago  the  good  Father  on  the  Island  told  me 
men  were  made  for  their  places  in  this  world  —  that 
still  some  men  were  born  with  the  mark  of  a  divine 
calling  on  them.  I  have  thought  as  I  watched  you 
speaking  to  the  public  such  a  mark  rested  on  your 
life;  that  in  truth,  in  the  name  of  the  Great  Mas- 
ter, you  belonged  to  that  brotherhood  who  by  and 

277 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

by  would  become  the  saviors  of  the  world.  What 
place  have  I  in  that  world?  How  truly  I  know 
that  I  have  none!  And  all  your  denials  could  not 
shake  me  from  that  conviction.  Just  why  our 
lives  touched,  I  do  not  know  and  I  do  not  attempt 
to  explain,  unless  it  was  that  both  needed  the  ex- 
perience. 

"  I  am  going  south,  Hector,  south,  across  the 
sea  to  France  —  back  to  Father  Lamore  and  my 
people  —  back  to  the  Island  and  the  chateau  where 
for  so  long  the  Grandcceurs  have  reigned  in  lonely, 
lovely  state  —  back  to  the  Memorial  Chapel  on 
the  heights.  I  ask  you  not  to  come  for  me.  Let 
me  from  the  ruin  of  my  life  at  least  go  unhampered 
on  my  search  for  peace.  There  is  no  comfort  that 
you  can  give  me  —  now  —  that  the  Island  cannot 
give  me  more.  I  desire  only  your  consideration  — 
not  your  pity. 

"  Adieu,  the  good  Father  will  write  you  from 
time  to  time.  To  the  world  —  my  health  keeps 
me  abroad  —  in  the  south  of  France.  To  you  — 
who  once  were  my  world,  whose  presence  was  its 
horizon  and  for  whom  I  left  my  land,  my  titles, 
my  people  and  my  Church,  the  knowledge  that 
our  paths  have  crossed  only  to  separate  again,  will 
be  enough.  I  will  think  of  you  unhampered.  You 
will  think  of  me  —  perhaps  —  sometimes  as  one 
who  could  no  longer  live  beneath  your  roof  and 
starve  on  empty  husks  of  love. 

"  Nay,  I  do  not  blame  you.  There  is  no  blame 
for  which  you  are  responsible.  Had  I,  in  the  old 

278 


THE   SANCTUARY 


days,  followed  truth  as  heroically  as  you  have,  I 
had  not  wronged  you  so. 

"  Adieu  —  adieu, 

"  CECILE." 

At  first  only  the  fact  that  she  had  gone  —  had 
left  him  —  struck  upon  his  consciousness  and  he 
wondered  vaguely  how  she  had  ever  made  the  trip 
alone  —  she  who  in  the  old  days  was  so  dependent 
on  others'  help.  There  was  no  mention  of  Hor- 
tense.  Hortense  had  not  gone,  he  knew,  remem- 
bering that  in  the  spring  Hortense  was  to  be  mar- 
ried. She  might  have  gotten  another  maid,  but 
it  was  doubtful  ;  his  reason  and  his  instinct  told 
him  just  how  doubtful,  remembering  Cecile's  dis- 
like of  new  faces  and  new  scenes. 

Then  as  another  thought  struck  him  and  beat 
insistent  on  his  brain,  he  rose  from  his  chair,  his 
hands  working  in  a  strange  restless  fashion,  for- 
eign to  him.  She  was  going  to  the  Island  of  the 
Angels  —  she  was  at  the  Island  now  —  perhaps! 
just  landed,  but  at  the  Island  where  Blair  Martin 
was.  The  Island  was  too  small  to  avoid  the  pos- 
sibility of  a  meeting.  What  was  there  that  human 
skill  could  do  —  how  save  Cecile,  how  save  Blair 
Martin,  from  what  must  be  only  added  pain?  He 
walked  the  length  of  the  room  with  rapid  steps 
and  a  half  dozen  plans  came  to  him,  all  of  which 
he  dismissed  as  impracticable.  One  thought  he 
clung  to,  one  hope  he  held,  one  thing  he  remem- 
bered for  his  relief.  Neither  had  heard  the  name 


THE   SANCTUARY 


of  the  other  from  him  —  both  had  been  too  large 
in  nature  to  descend  to  idle  curiosity  that  would 
have  in  the  old  days  conveyed  nothing  to  them. 
He  clung  to  the  remembrance  desperately.  Per- 
haps some  Fate,  who  had  played  with  them  all  so 
strange  a  game,  might  make  another  move  —  per- 
haps Blair  Martin,  tiring  of  the  Island,  would  go 
away.  If  there  was  but  some  one  —  ah,  he  stopped 
suddenly  in  his  walk  and  went  over  to  his  desk. 
There  was  some  one  after  all  into  whose  strong 
hands  the  tangled  threads  might  be  laid  with  some 
hope  of  their  unraveling.  He  would  write  to 
Pierre  Lamore. 

He  wrote  long  and  feverishly  and  the  letter  was 
unlike  any  he  had  ever  penned.  Up  to  now  he  had 
been  sufficient  to  himself,  had  fought  his  battles 
alone  and  never  asked  for  quarter.  He  never 
stopped  to  think  how  strange  it  was  that  he,  Hec- 
tor Stone,  should  be  unburdening  his  heart,  his 
brain,  to  a  Catholic  priest  in  France.  He  hid  noth- 
ing that  might  throw  some  light  on  the  affair  — 
he  did  not  spare  or  excuse  himself.  Even  now 
the  truth  as  he  saw  it  led  him  and  guided  the  pen 
that  moved  so  rapidly  over  sheet  after  sheet.  That 
the  knowledge  of  the  letter  would  be  sacred  he 
never  questioned.  That  the  letter  itself  would  be 
burned  on  reading  he  never  doubted. 

He  signed,  directed  and  sealed  it,  then  sent  for 
Wilson  and  bade  him  post  it  at  once.  After  that 
he  relocked  the  door,  and  shaking  as  though  with 
ague,  he  sat  down  again  in  the  big  chair  by  the 

280 


THE   SANCTUARY 


fire  and  stretched  his  hands  to  the  still  cheerful 
blaze. 

By  and  by  the  warmth  brought  him  a  sense  of 
physical  comfort  and  his  nerves  relaxed.  He 
stared  into  the  flames  and  strange  pictures  were 
figured  there.  As  he  watched  a  sense  of  peace 
crept  over  him  —  a  strange  sense  of  Blair's  pres- 
ence he  had  not  known  in  days.  Too  unstrung 
to  resist  further,  he  gave  himself  up  to  it,  not  ques- 
tioning the  phenomena.  By  and  by  all  sense  of 
the  present  vanished,  all  weaknesses  and  yearn- 
ings and  desires  fell  from  him  like  a  cloak,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  for  an  instant  he  saw  himself 
stripped  of  all  vehicles  of  flesh,  the  perfect  and 
perfected  Ego  of  the  Eternal  plan.  It  was  then 
he  felt  her  nearest,  it  was  then  to  hold  the  vision 
longer  that  he  closed  his  eyes,  to  unclose  them  with 
a  start,  deep  music  pulsing  in  his  brain.  But  it 
was  not  Schubert,  but  Gounod  that  he  heard. 

The  impression  faded  but  the  remembrance  of 
it  lingered  in  his  brain  and  filled  him  with  a  peace 
unspeakable.  Again  he  closed  his  eyes  and  slept. 


END   OF    BOOK    THREE. 


28l 


BOOK  FOUR 
THE   SANCTUARY 


I. 

ALL  through  the  walk  that  led  him  home; 
all  through  the  afternoon,  Lamore  watched 
the  gathering  clouds  with  anxious  eyes. 
He  recalled  an  afternoon  years  ago  when  the  sky 
had  looked  so,  and  he  remembered  the  night  of 
wild  storm  that  followed.  It  was  the  night  when 
the  tortured  spirit  of  Clarisse  had  been  liberated 
from  the  bonds  of  flesh,  and  the  child  Cecile, 
scarcely  more  than  an  infant  in  years,  had  been  left 
an  orphan. 

He  could  not  settle  himself  to  work  over  parish 
matters  that  needed  his  attention,  nor  could  he 
concentrate  his  thoughts  on  the  sermon  for  the 
coming  Sunday.  He  moved  restlessly  about  the 
small  bare  room  of  the  humble  rectory,  unadorned 
except  by  books  and  a  fine  old  picture  of  the  Naza- 
rene  —  the  room  dignified  by  the  name  of  study 
-finally  pausing  at  the  window.  Here  he  lin- 
gered, looking  out  with  troubled  eyes,  across  the 
stretch  of  waters  that  lay  between  the  Island  and 
Marseilles.  As  he  looked  far  off  toward  Mar- 
seilles the  blackness  of  the  clouds  increased  and  he 
knew  that  a  storm  had  descended  on  the  sea. 

Once  his  lips  moved  in  prayer.  How  often  in 
the  past  he  had  stood  on  the  Island  and  looked 

285 


THE   SANCTUARY 


seaward  in  a  storm.  How  often  his  prayer  had 
descended  in  the  depths  with  drowning  men, 
wrecked  on  that  treacherous  bit  before  the  landing 
at  Grenette! 

Suddenly  he  was  conscious  that  the  boy  An- 
thony was  standing  in  the  doorway  and  regarding 
him  with  grave  eyes.  It  was  the  boy  Anthony 
alone  of  all  the  people  in  the  Island  that  had  free 
access  to  Lamore's  study. 

Lamore  turned  with  a  smile,  not  wishing  to 
frighten  the  boy. 

"  What  is  it,  Anthony,  my  child  ?  " 

The  boy  came  over  to  him  and  took  his  hand 
and  looked  up  at  him  appealingly. 

"  I  saw  you  come  in.  I  knew  that  you  were 
troubled.  Is  it  for  the  ships  at  sea?" 

"  Are  you  a  little  wizard,  Anthony?  " 

The  boy  smiled  faintly  as  he  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  no,  mon  pere,  yet  — 

"Yet  what,  Anthony?" 

"  Never  have  I  seen  the  sky  look  as  it  does  now 
—  never  has  the  Island,  before  night,  been  so 
dark." 

Lamore  sighed  as  he  stroked  the  boy's  hair. 

"  Try  not  to  watch  the  sky  and  earth,  Anthony. 
Run  and  see  if  the  chickens  are  all  housed  and  the 
cow  in  from  pasture,  and  good  Nanette  quite  safe." 

After  he  had  gone  swiftly  and  obediently  La- 
more  glanced  again  toward  the  sea.  The  great 
storm  cloud  was  approaching  and  its  fury  would 
soon  be  on  them.  A  little  later,  premature  dark- 

286 


THE   SANCTUARY 


ness  swept  over  the  Island  and  hid  from  him  famil- 
iar things.  Then  it  was  he  went  over  to  a  cup- 
board and  took  from  it  strong  rubber  boots  which 
he  sometimes  used  when  the  spring  rains  made  the 
walking  to  the  distant  parts  of  the  Island  difficult, 
and  in  haste  he  put  them  on.  He  took  also  a  big 
lantern,  and  from  its  wooden  peg,  an  old  cloak  that 
in  bad  weather  had  sheltered  him  for  years.  This 
he  threw  around  his  shoulders  and  opened  the  door 
to  the  sanded  kitchen,  the  lantern  in  his  hand. 
There  he  met  Marie.  On  catching  sight  of  him 
she  gave  a  sharp  exclamation  of  dismay. 

"And  who  is  dying  now?"  she  asked  sharply, 
"  and  wants  you  on  such  a  night  when  the  flood 
is  going  to  descend  on  us  again?" 

He  reproved  her  with  a  look  that  was  all  kind- 
ness —  kindness  and  thanks  for  her  thought  of  him 
—  but  his  voice  rang  out  in  the  silence  of  the  little 
kitchen  with  a  note  the  peasants  in  extremities 
sometimes  heard. 

"  No  one  has  sent  for  me,  Marie.  Yet  there 
may  be  some  who  need  me  in  the  storm  —  some 
child  perhaps  caught  on  the  inlet  and  too  frightened 
to  get  home  —  some  stray  animal  too  weak  to  fight 
against  the  wind  alone." 

She  made  no  further  movement  to  stay  him, 
but  she  followed  him  to  the  door  that  even  La- 
more's  strength  found  difficult  to  open  against  the 
increasing  force  of  the  wind.  She  watched  him 
until  the  blackness  enveloped  him  and  he  was  lost 
to  view,  unmindful  of  the  wind  that  blew  upon  her 

287 


THE   SANCTUARY 


and  wrapped  her  peasant's  dress  around  her  like 
a  winding-  sheet.  From  the  dark,  the  boy  Anthony 
emerged,  lantern  in  hand,  returning  from  the  care 
of  the  dumb  things  that  served  them,  and  in  silence 
he  hung  the  lantern  on  a  big  nail  by  the  cottage 
door. 

Together  they  went  inside,  Anthony  to  sit  by 
a  great  fire  of  logs  and  watch  that  it  did  not  go  out, 
and  to  see  that  some  gruel  was  kept  warm  upon 
the  crane;  Marie,  her  usually  talkative  tongue 
silenced,  to  creep  up  the  narrow  winding  stairs  to 
her  small  room,  there  to  light  her  blessed  candle 
and  before  a  bisque  image  of  the  Virgin,  pray  for 
Lamore's  safe  return. 


288 


II. 

ONCE  out  beyond  the  gate  of  the  Rectory, 
Lamore  paused,  the  big  lantern  in  his  hand. 
He  had  no  definite  point  —  he  knew  not 
where  he  was  needed,  if  indeed  he  were  needed  at 
all  —  and  for  a  moment  he  wondered  why  he  had 
come.  The  next,  the  sea  seemed  calling  him  with 
an  insistency  not  to  be  denied.  He  followed  the 
instinct  now  as  he  had  followed  it  all  his  life. 

"  Can  it  be  Fauchet's  boat  —  that  Fauchet  needs 
me  and  has  been  caught  at  sea?"  he  thought,  as 
he  slowly  made  his  way  down  a  rough  cut  across 
an  unfarmed  pasture,  to  the  landing.  One  less 
sure-footed  than  himself,  one  less  physically  strong, 
would  have  found  the  short  cut  an  impassable  way. 
It  lay  exposed  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven  and  of- 
fered neither  tree  nor  shepherd's  hut  by  way  of 
shelter.  Here  all  the  force  of  the  storm,  now  break- 
ing, met  and  beat  upon  him.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
he  made  scarcely  any  headway  at  all;  sometimes 
he  stood  still  for  breath,  his  ear  keenly  alert  for 
any  sound.  Once  the  deep  tolling-  of  the  Chapel  bell 
reached  him  and  he  knew  that  Giovanni  —  faith- 
ful —  was  at  his  task. 

"  Only  God  knows,"  he  thought,  "  how  many 
souls  at  sea  St.  Michael's  bell  has  saved." 

289 


THE    SANCTUARY 


And  he  thought  suddenly  of  the  wreck  that  had 
occurred  on  the  inlet  reefs  years  ago;  how  the 
next  morning  had  revealed  the  beach-strewn  bod- 
ies, the  arms  of  an  older  Fauchet  still  clasping  the 
body  of  the  Count;  how  it  had  been  he,  Lamore 

—  who  bore  the  burden  of  his  people's  woes  — 
who  an  hour  later  had  climbed  to  the  chateau  and 
told  the  wife  —  the  mother  of   Cecile.     For  cen- 
turies the  curse  of  violent  death  or  madness  had 
taken  the  toll  from  the  chateau  of  the  Grandcoeurs, 
and     even     Clarisse  —  a     distant    cousin     of    the 
drowned  Count  —  had  felt  its  weight,  when  three 
years  later  she  had  died  insane.     Just  why  he  was 
thinking  of  these   things   and   of   Cecile   to-night, 
he  could  not  have  told,  unless  it  was  the  remem- 
brance of  two  long  delayed  letters  that  had  reached 
him  a  week  ago  —  letters  from  Cecile  and  Stone 

—  that   had   borne   the   almost   unbelievable   intel- 
ligence   that    they    were    together  —  that    she    had 
left  Montreal.     He  had  offered  a  Mass  of  thanks- 
giving at  St.  Michael's  before  writing  them  —  to- 
gether.    Perhaps  the  curse  was  to  lift  at  last  and 
Cecile  was  to  be  the  instrument.     Then  the  remem- 
brance of  Clarisse  came  back,  more  vivid  than  it 
had  in  years.  .  .  .  He  recalled  again  the  old  legend 
of  the  house  —  the  story  of  the  sin  once  committed 
against  innocence  and  human  rights,   followed  by 
the  sin  of  usurping  power,  and  long  years  of  an 
enemy  incarcerated  in  a  dungeon;    later  the  sin  of 
murder  when  fear  and  remorse  had  become  prey- 
ing demons   of  the  brain.     And  then   the   dying 

290 


THE   SANCTUARY 


curse  had  been  laid  on  the  Count  da  Grandcoeur 
and  his  sons  and  upon  his  line,  until  some  soul 
among  them  should  find  the  way  of  the  Great  Re- 
nunciation and  through  a  child  redeem  the  house, 
when  the  last  of  the  line  should  die  in  peace.  The 
Count  had  gone  to  the  Crusades  in  expiation,  but 
one  by  one  his  sons  had  died  of  lingering  madness 
or  by  violent  death,  until  he  himself  was  slain 
under  the  banner  of  the  great  Louis,  leaving  his 
titles  and  his  lands  to  one  surviving  child  —  a  girl 
of  ten.  Then  it  was  that  the  Island  and  the  great 
estates  in  France  had  become  a  female  fief.  Few 
males  were  born  after  that  to  the  line  —  direct  or 
otherwise  —  of  the  Grandcceurs.  Always  one  of 
the  eldest  males  had  become  a  priest  and  later  per- 
haps a  Cardinal;  always  one  of  the  women  in  a 
generation  had  entered  a  convent  and  taken  the 
veil,  hoping  to  lift  the  shadow  from  the  line.  But 
the  shadow  hung  there,  and  years  of  penance  and 
of  prayer  had  availed  the  heirs  of  the  house  noth- 
ing. Even  the  little  Count,  whose  body  lay  in  the 
crypt  of  the  Memorial  Chapel,  had  fallen  from  the 
cliff  and  died.  The  curse  of  madness  had  not 
spared  the  last  remaining  one  —  Cecile  —  until 
now.  .  .  . 

He  shook  the  memory  of  the  story  from  him  — 
that  long,  long  tale  of  bloodshed  and  of  human  woe 
—  and  wrapped  his  great  cloak  more  closely  around 
him,  the  better  to  fight  the  strength  and  violence 
of  the  rain  and  wind.  He  skirted  the  inlet,  with 
its  remembrances  of  horror,  and  came  at  last  upon 

291 


THE   SANCTUARY 


the  landing.  Here  he  swung  his  lantern  out  to 
sea.  The  inky,  white-capped,  tossing  waters  gave 
no  sign  of  any  living  thing,  and  he  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  relief.  For  a  moment  he  stood  hesi- 
tating. He  had  met  nothing  on  his  way,  no  living 
soul,  no  dumb  thing,  that  had  needed  him  or  his 
help.  He  thought  with  sudden  weariness  of  the 
long  struggle  back  before  he  could  reach  the  light 
and  warmth  of  the  Rectory  and  give  himself  up 
to  the  ministrations  of  Marie  and  the  boy.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  he  raised  his  head  and  listened,  every 
nerve  alert.  Above  the  noise  of  the  breaking  surf 
near  the  inlet  not  far  away,  above  the  tolling  of 
St.  Michael's  bell,  there  reached  him  the  slow, 
steady  pulse  of  an  engine  —  the  shrill  whistle  of 
a  tug. 

"  Fauchet's  boat  !  "  he  said  aloud. 

He  waited  through  what  seemed  interminable 
hours,  every  little  while  swinging  his  big  lantern 
seaward.  Slowly  the  pulsing  sound  came  nearer; 
once  it  receded  for  a  moment,  as  though  the  pilot 
had  lost  his  bearings.  Then  it  was,  unheeding  the 
danger  that  lay  from  the  force  of  the  wind  that 
beat  against  the  swaying  pier,  Lamore  went  to  its 
edge  and  swung  his  lantern  toward  the  sound. 

"  Courage,"  he  shouted,  "  you  are  almost 
home  !  "  The  wind  took  his  voice,  deep,  strong, 
and  sonorous,  and  carried  it  out  to  sea,  but  some- 
thing in  the  will  of  the  man  on  the  wharf  shot 
with  the  words  toward  the  laboring  craft.  The 
words  themselves  went  wild  and  were  lost  in  the 

292 


THE   SANCTUARY 


noises  of  the  night,  but  the  steady  will,  like  the 
unswerving  pressure  on  a  lever,  never  lessened 
until  Fauchet's  boat  came  into  sight  and  the  land- 
ing had  been  made. 

A  gangway  was  out  of  the  question.  The  boat 
surged  heavily  against  the  side  of  the  pier  as  though 
realizing  it  was  in  its  death-throes.  For  a  moment, 
by  the  light  of  the  great  lantern,  Lamore  saw  Fau- 
chet  poised  on  the  side  of  the  tug,  a  burden  in  his 
arms.  Once,  twice,  the  tug  beat  against  the  sides, 
the  space  slowly  widening  between  Fauchet  and 
the  pier,  while  Fauchet  watched  in  the  darkness 
for  his  chance  to  leap.  The  burden  stirred  in  his 
arms.  Again  the  lantern  fell  on  them,  and  this 
time  the  light  streamed  out  and  made  a  pathway  of 
safety  for  Fauchet. 

"  Leap  !  "  It  was  the  voice  of  Pierre  Lamore 
ringing  out  above  the  storm,  above  the  beating  of 
the  boat's  prow  against  the  pier.  "  Leap  !  And 
may  the  Master  hear  !  " 

As  though  at  the  call  of  the  bugle  ringing  out 
for  battle,  Fauchet  heard  and  instinctively  obeyed. 
Across  the  widening  space,  unmindful  of  the  dark 
death  beneath,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  light  shining 
on  the  pier,  Fauchet  cleaved  the  distance  and  half 
fell  at  Lamore's  feet,  his  unconscious  burden  in 
his  arms.  The  little  tug  slowly  settled  in  the  sea. 

Lamore  helped  him  to  rise. 

"  A  woman,  Fauchet  ?  "  he  asked  wonderingly. 

Fauchet  stood  before  him.  His  burden  stirred 
again.  By  the  light  of  the  lantern  Lamore  could 

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THE   SANCTUARY 


see  his  face,  white  and  bloodless,  his  wet  and  matted 
hair. 

"  It  is  our  lady,  Father,"  he  said.     "  Our  lady 
has  come  home." 


294 


III. 

FOR  a  fortnight,  in  an  upper  chamber  in  the 
chateau  that  looked  toward  St.  Michael's 
and  the  sea,  Cecile  lay,  too  prostrated  from 
exposure,  danger  and  fatigue,  to  think  or  care  of 
much  that  went  on  around.  She  never  clearly 
remembered  the  events  of  that  night  of  the  storm 
—  the  wreck  of  Fauchet's  boat  —  the  drive  up  to 
the  chateau  —  and  Lamore  and  Fauchet  and  the 
people  who  loved  her  with  an  affection  that  had 
descended  through  generations  of  the  peasants  of 
her  Island,  never  told.  It  was  Lamore's  old  chaise 
drawn  by  old  Nanette,  led  by  the  Father  himself 
and  Gabrille,  the  younger  brother  of  Frangois  Fau- 
chet, that  had  climbed  that  long,  wind-swept,  wind- 
ing road.  Inside  the  chaise  Marie  had  held  her  in 
her  arms,  close  against  her  rough  peasant's  dress  and 
wildly  beating  heart.  It  had  been  midnight  when 
Angelo,  the  keeper  of  the  chateau,  had  been  aroused 
from  his  sleep  by  the  knocking  of  the  Father  at 
the  door  and  had  lent  his  aid  to  the  almost  ex- 
hausted priest  and  peasant,  and  later  fetched  the 
chateau  physician  from  his  cottage  near  the  cliff. 
The  chateau,  that  had  for  so  long  remained  in 
nightly  darkness  except  for  the  corner  windows, 
where  for  centuries  had  burned  lights  for  the  guid- 


THE   SANCTUARY 


ance  of  stray  wayfarers  in  need,  became  illumi- 
nated in  the  wing  facing  the  Chapel  and  the  sea. 
The  rest  of  the  great  pile  of  stone,  facing  the  vil- 
lage and  the  valleys,  remained  as  it  had  been  for 
so  long,  in  darkness. 

There  through  the  long  night  her  people  had 
worked  over  her  unconscious  form,  pouring  into 
the  labor  the  love  and  the  devotion  and  the  fire  of 
loyalty  that  through  long  years  of  absence  Lamore 
had  kept  bright.  Marie  remained  at  the  chateau 
until  a  housekeeper  known  and  trusted  by  Lamore 
could  be  summoned  from  Marseilles.  In  lieu  of 
her  mother,  now  dead,  who  had  served  the  ladies 
of  the  castle  for  so  long,  Marie  took  her  place  as 
nurse,  by  right.  Now  and  then,  when  her  lady  was 
resting  or  asleep,  Marie  would  return  to  the  Rec- 
tory to  see  how  things  fared  with  the  good  Father 
and  the  boy  Anthony  and  the  peasant  girl  the 
former  had  gotten  in  to  help  during  Marie's  ab- 
sence. To  Marie's  eyes  all  was  going  as  well  at 
the  Rectory  as  could  be  expected  in  her  absence, 
and  she  never  noticed  the  strange  new  look  in  the 
boy  Anthony's  eyes,  nor  guessed  of  his  daily  prayer 
before  her  bisque  figure  of  Alary,  that  soon  he 
might  be  summoned  or  sent  to  climb  the  chateau 
hill  and  see  the  lady  that  had  come  back  to  them 
through  danger  in  that  night  when  he  had  fallen 
asleep  before  the  fire  and  the  crane,  while  waiting 
for  the  Father. 

The  days  followed  days,  and  still  he  waited  for 
the  summons,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 

296 


THE   SANCTUARY 


did  not  confide  in  Lamore.  He  used  to  listen 
eagerly  to  the  few  words  dropped  by  the  priest  on 
his  return  from  his  daily  visit  to  the  chateau,  but 
for  the  most  part  Lamore  seemed  anxious  and  pre- 
occupied, He  avoided  meetings  with  Blair  Martin 
or  parochial  visits  of  any  kind,  and  answered  all 
inquiries  as  to  the  condition  of  the  Island's  lady 
in  a  kind,  if  brief  and  reserved  way. 

Like  the  boy  Anthony,  Blair  Martin  would  day 
by  day  stand  by  her  window  in  the  morning  and 
watch  the  first  sunlight  fall  upon  the  flag;  would, 
from  the  gate  of  Toinette's  cottage  or  from  the 
rocks  and  fields,  see  the  last  glimmer  of  the  spring 
sunshine  touch  it  before  it  faded  in  the  west  behind 
St.  Michael's  and  the  sea.  That  great  waving 
thing  of  silk  with  its  gold  cross  on  its  azure  field 
became  to  her  almost  a  living  thing.  She  watched 
it  in  '  the  morning  breeze  stretching  its  full  length, 
as  though  in  willing  submission  to  a  force  stronger 
than  itself:  she  knew  how,  in  the  midday  heat, 
when  St.  Michael's  great  bell  tolled  the  Angelus, 
and  all  the  work  of  the  Island  ceased  for  prayer, 
the  silk  folds  of  it  hung  limp  and  quiet  as  though 
from  its  height  it  paused  in  its  restlessness  to  hear 
the  Ave  Maria  said.  The  mystery  of  its  long  years 
of  rest,  its  sudden  raising  in  the  night  of  storm, 
the  quiet  persistency  of  its  presence  there  now, 
through  rain  and  sunshine,  became  a  vital  interest 
in  her  life.  Of  Lamore  she  saw  little.  Indeed 
every  one  in  the  Island  seemed  suddenly  aroused 
from  their  quiet  life  among  the  flocks  and  vine- 

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yards,  and  gathered  into  low-voiced  groups,  dis- 
cussing the  matter  of  the  return  of  the  lady  of  the 
Island,  stopping  suddenly  when  she  drew  near,  with 
their  first  show  of  apparent  inhospitality,  as  though 
in  this  one  thing  she  was  separate  and  apart  from 
them,  and  in  this  could  not  share  their  lives.  In 
these,  two  weeks  it  was  the  boy  Anthony  that  filled 
her  most  lonely  hours,  —  his  eyes  lighting  with 
a  strange  fire  as  they  looked  toward  the  chateau 
on  the  heights  topped  by  the  long  silk  flag  —  that 
kept  the  new  and  living  interest  at  a  fever  heat. 
Anthony  spoke  little  in  these  days,  but  there  grew 
up  between  them  a  freer  understanding  that  gave 
her  new  interest  in  the  child.  For  some  reason, 
with  a  restraint  foreign  to  the  ways  of  boyhood, 
he  sought  in  no  way  other  than  in  listening  to  the 
Father's  or  the  peasants'  talk,  to  draw  himself  into 
a  nearer  relationship  with  the  lady  of  the  chateau. 
He  did  not  even  push  through  the  wicket  gate  and 
attempt  to  see  her,  on  a  pretended  visit  to  his  old 
grandfather.  In  his  slender  height  of  childhood, 
with  a  face  of  one  of  Botticelli's  choristers,  in  his 
simple  peasant  blouse,  it  seemed  as  though  he 
awaited  the  pleasure  of  his  lady,  as  in  the  old  days 
one  of  the  Counts  de  Grandcoeur  had  awaited  a 
summons  to  court. 

So  they  waited  —  waited  both  alike,  unconscious 
that  the  thing  they  waited  for  was  so  soon  to  come. 


IV. 

AT  the  end  of  the  two  weeks,  with  the  aid  of 
Marie,  Cecile  got  up  from  the  couch  by  the 
window  where  she  had  been  moved  fr.om  her 
bed  and  went  out  to  the  chateau  garden.  For  a 
while,  seated  on  an  upper  step  of  the  terrace  in 
the  warm  sunshine,  she  talked  to  Giovanni  of  his 
boyhood's  home  in  Florence,  of  the  life  and  changes 
on  the  Island,  of  the  wonder  of  his  work  here  among 
the  flowers.  Then,  when  the  old  man  had  left  her 
for  his  midday  meal,  she  got  up  and  began  slowly 
to  wander  through  the  familiar  paths.  Except  for 
greater  tree  growth,  more  luxurious  vegetation  and 
flowers,  the  place  was  quite  unchanged  from  what 
she  remembered  it  as  a  child  and  later  as  a  girl. 
The  chateau  garden !  It  was  here  that  she  had  come 
and  wept,  comforted  by  Giovanni,  on  her  eve  of  de- 
parture for  the  convent  in  Lyons  —  she  had  been 
so  little  then  and  so  lonely  —  it  was  here  she  had 
come  that  spring  morning  as  a  young  girl  in  her 
Communion  veil  and  looked  upon  the  flowers,  gath- 
ering the  fairest  for  the  Virgin's  altar,  before  she 
fed  upon  the  Mystery  Bread ;  it  was  here,  down  by 
the  wicket  gate,  she  had  stood  and  looked  at  the 
young  stranger  emerging  from  the  woods  —  first 
met  his  eyes  and  taken  of  the  Sacrament  of  Love; 
and  it  was  here  that  later,  stained  with  the  wrong  of 

299 


THE   SANCTUARY 


deceit,  she  had  come  back  to  await  the  coming  of  the 
child  ;  it  was  here  she  had  first  brought  him  to  look 
upon  his  future  lands;  it  was  here  she  had  stood 
five  years  later  with  Lamore,  beside  an  open  grave, 
and  wept  her  woman's  tears.  .  .  .  There  was  no  lit- 
tle mound  in  the  garden  now  to  greet  her  eyes,  only 
warmth  and  brightness  of  the  sunshine  and  the 
sweet  odor  of  the  flowers.  Instinctively  she  looked 
toward  St.  Michael's,  where  in  the  crypt  under  the 
high  altar  they  had,  in  her  absence,  placed  the  body 
of  the  little  Count.  .  .  .  Some  day  soon,  she  would 
go  there  and  kneel  beside  it  —  see  the  memorial  win- 
dow —  say  a  prayer  at  the  high  altar  —  some  day 
when  she  was  stronger  and  the  weather  had  grown 
warmer  and  her  cough  better.  She  did  not  doubt 
that  her  cough  would  get  better  —  was  she  not  home 
again  —  had  not  the  great  Marseilles  physician  de- 
clared that  the  Island  days  and  nights  were  not  to  be 
excelled  in  all  the  south  of  France?  The  journey 
home,  the  long,  lonely,  seasick  days  across  the  At- 
lantic, the  weary  trip  from  Marseilles,  later  the  ter- 
rible one  in  Fauchet's  boat,  when  the  storm  had 
overshadowed  them  and  she  had  urged,  nay,  com- 
manded, Fauchet  to  push  on,  declaring  that  they 
would  out-race  the  storm,  until  retreat  was  impos- 
sible, all  —  all  had  not  been  good  for  her  nor  helped 
her  cough,  but  now  she  was  at  home.  It  would  be 
well. 

For  a  while  she  stood  dreaming  near  the  wicket 
gate.  After  all  it  was  through  the  wicket  gate  that 
Love  had  first  come  to  her,  and  to  her,  as  to  all 

300 


*B  THE   SANCTUARY  fl* 

women,  no  time,  no  distance,  no  sin  or  heartache, 
could  wipe  out  the  vividness  of  that  remembrance 
for  her  —  blot  it  from  her  life. 

The  sense  of  some  one's  near  presence  aroused  her 
from  her  dream.  She  looked  up  suddenly  and  saw 
a  woman  standing  by  the  wicket  gate.  For  a  mo- 
ment, across  the  sun-kissed  lawn,  they  looked  in 
silence  at  one  another  and,  in  spite  of  the  warmth 
of  the  day  that  was  still  young,  Cecile  shivered  as 
though  cold  and  drew  her  light  wrap  closer.  It 
was  a  strange  working  of  inheritance  and  a  contra- 
diction to  the  world's  preconceived  idea  of  the  fitness 
of  it,  that  made  the  woman  of  ancient  lineage  and 
of  title,  trained  in  the  formalities  of  an  older  civil- 
ization, for  a  moment  forget  the  usages  of  society 
and  look  in  open  wonder  on  this  other  stranger 
whom  Fate  had  led  up  to  the  wicket  gate.  It  was 
the  younger  woman,  born  in  a  land  where  social  dif- 
ferences mean  less,  titles  vastly  more,  the  daughter 
of  Andrew  Martin,  who  on  her  father's  side  at  least 
could  claim  little  of  what  Europe  knew  as  gentle 
blood,  who  -bore  herself  with  a  composure  only 
equaled  by  the  charm  with  which  she  apologized 
for  her  intrusion. 

"  I  fear  I  startled  you,"  she  said,  "  I  did  not 
dream  that  I  should  find  you  here.  Down  in  the 
valley  we  think  of  you  still  as  ill  —  quite  ill  in  bed. 
I  climbed  the  cliff  this  morning  to  sit  upon  St. 
Michael's  steps  and  listen  while  Father  Lamore 
practised  on  the  great  organ  —  as  I  often  do.  I 
returned  by  way  of  the  road,  and  the  temptation  to 

301 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

step  aside  and  look  once  more  on  the  chateau  garden 
was  too  strong.  I  saw  Madame  long  before  she  knew 
that  I  was  at  the  gate,  and  was  trying  to  slip  away 
unseen.  I  hope  Madame  the  Comtesse  is  quite  well 
again  ?  " 

She  had  spoken  in  a  French  marked  for  its  purity, 
yet  which  could  not  quite  conceal  her  foreign  birth. 
Her  speech  had  been  a  long  one,  evidently  to  give 
the  older  woman  time  to  recover  from  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  meeting,  and  now  when  Cecile  answered, 
it  was  with  the  manner  and  graciousness  that  was 
one  of  her  chief  characteristics,  and,  as  though  to 
make  her  guest  feel  at  home,  she  talked  pretty 
broken  English. 

"  Quite  well  again,  thank  you,  except  for  a  little 
cough  which  is  nothing.  Mademoiselle  —  "  she  had 
hesitated  for  an  almost  imperceptible  instant,  and 
with  a  smile  looked  at  the  other  woman's  left  hand, 
where  only  one  ring  —  a  sapphire  —  shone,  "  Made- 
moiselle is  welcome  to  our  Island  and  our  garden. 
Will  not  Mademoiselle  enter?" 

Blair  Martin  pushed  open  the  little  wicket  gate 
for  the  second  time.  The  spell  of  the  place  was  on 
her  again  —  the  spell  of  this  other  woman's  superb 
yet  gentle  graciousness.  She  crossed  the  bit  of  lawn 
that  lay  between  them,  her  slow  movements  giving 
no  hint  of  the  excitement  the  incident  had  wrought. 
Cecile  watched  her,  her  grace  and  refinement  and 
lack  of  visible  embarrassment  appealed  to  her  deli- 
cate sense  of  the  fitness  of  things. 

"  My  name  is  Miss  Martin  —  Blair  Martin,"  this 

302 


THE   SANCTUARY 


stranger  was  saying  with  a  smile,  "  and  I  have  been 
living  for  weeks  on  your  beautiful  Island.  I  board 
at  the  cottage  of  Toinette  Dorset." 

The  Comtesse  of  the  Island  inclined  her  head. 
She  wondered  where  the  stranger,  who  was  evi- 
dently an  American,  had  heard  of  the  Island  and 
its  beauty.  Perhaps  —  like  that  other  stranger  of 
years  back  —  she  might  be  a  traveler  who  had  been 
stopping  at  Marseilles  and  by  chance  had  come  to 
them.  Something  of  the  feudal  obligations  held 
for  centuries  by  the  Grandcoeurs  stirred  in  her. 
Politeness  forbade  seeming  curiosity.  The  fact  that 
chance  or  fate  had  sent  her  here  made  her  welcome 
to  the  Island  and  what  it  had  to  give. 

"  You  are  welcome,"  she  said  again  as  she  looked 
into  Blair  Martin's  eyes. 

Something  in  the  simple  dignity  of  the  speech 
and  the  obligations  that  rank  and  possessions  had 
imposed  on  this  slender  dark-eyed  chatelaine  of  the 
Island,  struck  Blair  Martin  as  a  new  experience  in 
life,  strange  as  well  as  new.  She  hastened  to  offer 
something  more  of  an  introduction  of  herself. 

"  A  friend  of  your  good  priest,  Father  Lamore, 
recommended  me  to  his  care.  I  was  traveling 
through  Europe  with  my  maid  when  Father  La- 
more's  letter  of  invitation  came,  offering  me  the 
Island's  hospitality  in  your  name." 

"  So  !  Mademoiselle  is  doubly  welcome.  Father 
Lamore's  word  carries  as  much  weight  on  the  Island 
as  my  own  —  probably  more  —  "  here  Cecile  broke 
off  and  smiled  a  little  —  "  since  I  also  depend  on 

303 


THE   SANCTUARY 


what  the  Father  says.  Our  priest  is  as  widely 
known  throughout  Europe,  Mademoiselle,  as  he  is 
widely  loved." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,"  said  Blair  Martin,  holding 
out  her  hand. 

The  French  woman  took  it  and  let  her  eyes  rest 
on  it  a  moment,  and  in  that  moment  the  two  women 
came  in  closer  contact.  With  a  movement  that  was 
as  sudden  as  it  was  unexpected  the  French  woman 
dropped  the  hand  and  stooped  down  and  began  to 
gather  some  flowers.  She  was  not  conscious  at  first 
just  what  the  flowers  were,  but  she  continued  to 
pick  them  —  mechanically.  By  the  time  she  had  a 
handful,  she  had  quite  recovered  herself  and  rose, 
holding  them  out  to  Blair  Martin,  who  stood  near 
looking  down  curiously  on  the  slender  stooping 
figure. 

"  Will  you  take  them  —  from  the  Island?  "  asked 
the  French  woman.  She  smiled  as  she  spoke,  but  she 
looked  intently  into  the  eyes  of  the  American. 

Blair  Martin  held  out  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  thank  you.  They  are  lovely.  They  are  my 
favorite  flowers." 

"  I  fancied  so,"  said  the  elder  woman  slowly. 

Blair  Martin  looked  down  at  the  violets  a  moment 
in  silence. 

"  They  are  more  beautiful  than  any  I  ever  saw 
in  my  own  garden,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  So  !  You  have  a  garden  —  you  love  flowers  — 
at  home?" 

Blair  Martin  laughed  a  little. 

304 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  I  was  very  proud  of  our  garden,"  she  said,  "  un- 
til I  saw  the  chateau  garden,  Comtesse." 

"  Ah  !  " 

"  But  at  home,"  went  on  the  American,  "  there  is 
something  we  have,  I  have  not  found  even  in  the 
chateau  garden  —  it  is  a  wonderful  mimosa  tree. 
Has  the  Comtesse  ever  seen  a  mimosa  tree  in 
bloom?" 

The  French  woman  shook  her  head  as  they  kept 
slow  step  together  down  a  winding  path. 

"  Tell  me  of  it,  Mademoiselle." 

"  They  grow  in  our  south  —  there  are  few  where 
I  live  in  the  north  —  but  we  brought  this,  my  father 
and  I,  a  shoot  from  a  tree  at  my  mother's  home, 
long  before  she  died.  At  first  we  raised  it  under 
glass.  In  the  summer  it  blooms  all  pink  against  the 
tender  green  —  "  Blair  Martin  stopped  speaking 
suddenly  and  stared  out  across  the  hedges  and  the 
flowers  that  she  did  not  seem  to  see.  "  It  should  be 
coming  into  leaf  about  now,"  she  added  after  a 
while.  "  Some  day  I  hope  Madame  the  Comtesse 
may  see  it." 

"  Perhaps  —  some  day,"  said  Cecile  slowly  with 
a  faint  smile. 

For  a  while  they  talked  on  indifferent  subjects  — 
the  prospects  for  the  coming  vineyard  harvest  — 
Lamore  and  his  life  —  the  peasants  and  the  won- 
derful climate  of  the  Island.  Then  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise  at  the  passing  of  time  Blair  Martin 
turned  toward  the  wicket  gate  once  more. 

"  The  next  time  Mademoiselle  climbs  the  heights 

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THE   SANCTUARY 


she  must  let  me  welcome  her  to  the  chateau,"  and 
Blair  Martin  wondered  suddenly  what  made  her 
hostess'  voice  so  strange,  even  while  she  thanked 
her.  On  the  outskirts  of  the  garden  Cecile  stopped 
her  with  a  gesture. 

"  Do  not  leave  us,  Mademoiselle,  with  only  the 
few  violets."  She  clapped  her  hands  sharply  and  old 
Giovanni,  working  near,  stopped  at  his  task  and 
came  toward  them. 

"  Some  flowers  —  some  roses  and  some  lilies  — 
for  the  American  lady,  Giovanni." 

The  old  man  bowed,  not  overpleased  at  having 
his  garden  robbed  for  a  stranger,  but  returned  soon 
with  the  flowers  in  his  hands  and  gave  them  to  the 
Comtesse. 

She  took  them  from  him  with  a  nod  of  thanks 
that  was  all  the  reward  he  needed,  and  laid  them  in 
Blair  Martin's  arms. 

"  The  roses  are  the  flowers  of  love,"  she  said  in 
a  low  voice,  looking  deep  into  her  eyes  as  though 
she  would  wrest  from  their  gray  depths  an  answer 
to  an  unvoiced  question  of  her  own,  "  and  the  lilies, 
Mademoiselle,  —  they  are  the  flowers  of  France." 


306 


V. 

FOR  a  week  Cecile  walked  in  the  chateau  gar- 
den every  day.  For  the  most  part  she  was 
alone,  and  often  had  her  embroidery  frame 
carried  out  and  placed  upon  a  rug  near  the  sunshine 
of  the  terrace.  Here  she  sat  and  worked  upon  the 
gold  and  azure  frontal  that  was  almost  done.  Here 
the  housekeeper  came  to  her  for  any  orders  that  she 
might  care  to  give;  here  Marie  took  leave  of  her 
when  she  was  well  enough  to  need  a  nurse  no 
longer;  here  Giovanni  would  pause  on  his  way  to 
and  from  work  in  the  lower  garden:  it  was  here 
Lamore  found  her  one  day  when  he  came  to  call. 

He  sat  down  a  little  wearily  in  the  easy  chair  a 
footman  had  brought  and  leaned  forward  to  look  at 
the  work  in  the  embroidery  frame.  He  wiped  his 
forehead  with  his  handkerchief. 

"  How  well  you  work,  my  child,  and  how  cool 
it  is  up  here  even  in  the  sun." 

She  regarded  him  with  anxious  and  affectionate 
eyes. 

"  You  surely  did  not  climb  the  heights  on  this 
warm  day  ?  " 

"  Am  I  so  antiquated,  then,  that  the  little  Cecile 
thinks  I  cannot  walk  any  more  ?  "  he  asked  evasively. 

307 


THE   SANCTUARY 


She  shook  her  head,  troubled. 

"  But  why  did  you  not  use  the  chaise  —  that 
wonderful  chaise  that  you  still  cling  to  and  refuse 
to  allow  me  to  buy  from  you,  Father?  " 

"  You  could  not  pay  the  price  I  want  for  my  old 
chaise,  my  child,"  he  said,  and  laughed  so  heartily 
at  his  little  joke  that  some  birds  near,  startled  at  the 
sound,  flew  suddenly  away. 

"  Then,  if  your  pride  is  not  as  great  as  I  thought, 
let  me  give  you  —  at  least  let  me  make  it  a  perpetual 
loan  —  one  of  the  small  carriages  in  the  chateau 
stables.  There  is  no  one  here  to  use  all  the  carriages 
• —  the  grooms  would  be  grateful  if  you  relieved 
them  of  just  one.  And  Nanette  —  that  wretched, 
lazy,  overfed  beast  —  why,  Father,  I  have  a  mare 
twice  as  useful  as  Nanette,  that  you  could  use." 

:(  You  must  not  scold  me  so,  nor  say  such  hard 
things  of  my  Nanette.  She  has  served  me  long  and 
well  —  " 

"  There !  There !  I  love  the  old  thing  as  well  as 
you  almost.  Did  she  not  bring  me  home  the  other 
night  when  I  was  half  dead  from  danger  and 
fatigue?  But,  Father,  where  is  your  merciful  heart? 
Nanette  should  be  turned  to  pasture  and  pensioned 
off  after  a  long  life  of  service." 

"  Nanette  and  I  are  old  friends.  I  cannot  pension 
old  friends,  Comtesse ;  only  dependents !  " 

"  Such  pride,  Father !  As  the  chatelaine  of  the 
chateau  I  must  speak  of  it  to  our  kinsman  the  Car- 
dinal when  he  comes." 

Lamore's  eyes  twinkled. 

308 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  His  Eminence  will  not  be  here  for  almost  an- 
other year.  By  that  time  you  may  decide  to  visit  the 
Pyramids  or  look  upon  the  fjords  of  Norway." 

"  Ah  !  You  make  me  shiver  when  you  talk  of  Nor- 
way, and  you  make  me  very  hot  when  you  talk  of 
Egypt.  Talk  of  pleasant  things  to  me,  Father  — 
about  the  Cardinal  or  —  or  perhaps  the  American 
at  Toinette  Dorset's  cottage  in  the  valley." 

Lamore  studied  the  frontal  in  the  embroidery 
frame. 

"The  American?" 

"  Nay,  Father,  do  not  pretend  to  know  nothing  of 
the  American.  She  came  on  your  invitation.  She 
told  me  so." 

Lamore  turned  on  her  slowly,  but  even  Cecile, 
who  had  known  him  since  her  birth  and  his  every 
change  of  mood,  could  detect  no  surprise  or  added 
color  in  his  face. 

"  You  have  met  and  talked  with  her?  " 

"  A  little  while,  Father,  near  the  wicket  gate.  She 
thought  me  still  ill  in  bed  and  peeped  in  at  the  gar- 
den on  her  return  from  hearing  you  practise  at  St. 
Michael's.  She  says  her  name  is  Blair  Martin  ;  that 
-  some  mutual  friend  recommended  her  to  your 
care  here.  I  —  "  the  Comtesse  broke  off. 

"What  did  you  think  of  her,  my  child?"  he 
asked  suddenly  as  Cecile  paused. 

She  met  his  eyes  steadily. 

"  I  thought  her  charming,  Father." 

Lamore  rose  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down. 
He  wondered  what  was  coming  next. 

309 


THE   SANCTUARY 


By  and  by  Cecile  left  her  low  chair  by  the  em- 
broidery frame  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  with 
him.  After  a  little  she  slipped  her  arm  in  his  and 
peered  around  at  him  in  the  pretty  appealing  way  he 
remembered  as  a  child  when  she  had  begged  for  the 
peppermints  he  always  brought  her  from  a  trip  to 
Marseilles. 

"  Father  ?  "  very  low. 

"  My  child  ?  "  very  tenderly. 

"  I  have  a  favor  to  ask,  Father.  I  want  your  in- 
fluence, Father,  in  a  matter  for  —  my  happiness." 

He  looked  down  at  her.  All  the  pretty  playful- 
ness of  look  and  gesture  had  disappeared.  Her 
white  face  with  the  dark  eyes,  and  crowned  by  the 
dark  hair,  looked  back  at  him  wistfully.  How  like 
her  eyes  to  eyes  he  had  seen  here  in  the  chateau 
garden  long  —  so  long  ago  !  His  hold  against  her 
arm  tightened.  It  spoke  of  encouragement  and 
strength. 

"  Is  it  my  influence  with  the  Cardinal  ?  He  has 
never  refused  his  help  in  trouble.  Or  —  " 

"  It  is  nothing  that  the  Great  Cardinal  can  do  for 
me  in  Rome.  It  is  not  the  Great  Cardinal's  help  I 
want  this  time  —  but  yours." 

Lamore  smiled. 

"  What  can  I  give  that  his  Eminence  cannot  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Much.  Could  the  Great  Cardinal  take  your 
place  with  me  —  with  my  people  here?"  she  an- 
swered quickly. 

"  Your  people  here  and  you  are  prejudiced,"  said 

310 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Lamore  with  a  faint  smile,  but  a  slow  flush  of  pleas- 
ure crept  across  his  face. 

"  Then,  Father,  it  is  quite  settled.  You  will  help 
me?" 

Lamore  laughed. 

"  How  the  little  Cecile  takes  things  for  granted  — 
yet  —  have  I  ever  been  less  indulgent  than  the  Car- 
dinal?" 

"Never!  And  I  have  never  asked  of  his  Emi- 
nence all  I  have  asked  from  you,"  the  Comtessei 
answered. 

"  He  would  grant  as  much,  my  child." 

Cecile  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a  pretty  ques- 
tioning gesture  that  had  in  it  just  a  spice  of  dis- 
respect. 

"  The  Great  Cardinal  is  still  —  the  Great  Car- 
dinal! You  are  just  Pierre  Lamore,  the  priest  of 
our  Island  of  the  Angels,  and  all  I  or  my  people 
want  of  power  and  good  just  now.  The  favor, 
Father,"  she  broke  off  and  looked  up  at  him  again 
in  the  beseeching  childlike  way. 

;<  There !  There !  Cecile,  I  can  refuse  you  noth- 
ing. Is  it  —  more  peppermints  from  Marseilles  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"  The  peppermints  were  good  in  their  day  and 
much  desired.  I  wonder  sometimes  if,  at  the  end  of 
life,  when  we  look  back,  all  that  we  have  yearned 
for,  much  that  we  have  wept  for,  will  seem  as  un- 
important as  the  sweets  seem  now." 

She  did  not  seem  to  expect  an  answer.  Once 
more  the  childish  look  had  faded  and  something 

3" 


rested  in  her  face  —  a  look  remote  —  which  Lamore 
was  conscious  that  he  had  not  seen  before. 

"  Perhaps,  my  child,"  said  the  priest  slowly.  Then 
he  waited  for  her  to  go  on. 

"  The  chateau  is  unchanged,  and  it  is  beautiful, 
Father,  but  it  is  lonely  and  full  of  memories;  the 
chateau  garden  is  as  I  remember  it  as  a  child  when 
I  walked  here  with  my  staid  governess,  but  it,  too, 
is  lonely,  Father,  and  memory-haunted  — '  She 
broke  off. 

"  Then  why,  my  child,  did  you  come  back  — 
alone?  Could  you  not  have  waited  for  your  hus- 
band?" 

She  looked  away,  and  she  would  not  meet  his 
eyes. 

"  I  had  no  right  to  take  Hector  from  his  work. 
Neither  could  I  stay  with  him.  Do  not  ask  me  why. 
Some  day  —  some  day  I  will  tell  you  all  things ; 
until  then  trust  me  and  help  me  to  be  as  happy  as 
I  can." 

"  I  will,  Cecile.  What  is  it  that  I  can  do  for 
you?" 

"  Persuade  the  American  to  come  and  stay  with 
me  a  little  while  at  the  chateau." 

Lamore  stopped  suddenly  in  his  walk  and  re- 
garded her  curiously. 

"  That  would  be  impossible,  Cecile." 

"  Impossible !    Why,  Father  ?  " 

It  seemed  to  him  he  could  not  in  his  turn  meet  her 
eyes;  that  he  was  nearer  to  deceit  to-day  than  ever 
in  his  life.  Yet  had  not  Hector  Stone  put  his  trust 

312 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

in  him?  If  it  might  be  that  he  could  hear  from 
Hector  Stone  again  and  learn  just  how  much  he 
knew  —  just  why  Cecile  had  come  back  to  the 
Island,  alone. 

"  Impossible !    Why,  Father  ?  " 

The  insistent  question  of  the  woman  at  his  side 
beat  upon  his  ears.  With  keen  but  kindly  eyes  that 
rarely  were  misled  he  searched  her  own  and  found 
them  inscrutable. 

"  She  is  quite  a  stranger,  Cecile." 

"  Was  she  not  invited  to  the  Island  by  you  and 
vouched  for  by  a  mutual  friend?  " 

"  Quite  true  —  only  —  " 

"Only  what,  Father?" 

"  She  is  very  proud,  Cecile.  I  doubt  if  she  would 
come." 

"  Try  her,  Father.  She,  too,  looks  lonely.  It 
cannot  be  that  Toinette  Dorset  gives  her  all  the 
companionship  she  needs." 

"  She  seems  quite  contented  at  Toinette's." 

"  She  might  be  —  more  contented  here." 

Lamore  began  his  slow  walk  again,  his  eyes  look- 
ing down  at  the  path.  How  dark  and  rich  the  earth 
was  —  how  free  of  weeds,  thanks  to  Giovanni. 

"  Cecile  —  tell  me  the  truth.  Why  is  it  you  want 
this  stranger  —  this  American  here?  " 

Hidden  by  the  folds  of  her  soft  morning  gown, 
Cecile's  fingers  twitched  a  little  nervously.  She 
was  acutely  glad  that  Lamore  was  not  looking  at 
her  face. 

"  Father  —  I  am  lonely !    Never  in  my  life  have 

313 


THE   SANCTUARY 


I  known  a  woman  friend.  The  chateau  and  the  gar- 
den are  memory-haunted  for  me.  Let  me  —  let  me, 
before  I  leave  you  and  the  Island  again,  have  hap- 
pier dreams  to  carry  with  me." 

"This  is  your  only  reason?"  He  was  looking 
at  her  now. 

She  answered  without  hesitation,  "  What  other 
reason  could  I  have,  Father  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  Yet  you  do  not  speak  nor  act 
like  yourself,  Cecile." 

"  It  might  be,  Father,  that  your  own  heart  is  — 
for  some  reason  —  troubled?" 

Inwardly  he  was  aware  of  being  amused  at  her 
sharp  wit  that  had  turned  the  tables  on  him.  At 
least  she  must  not  suspect  he  had  other  reasons  for 
refusal. 

"  You  are  quite  sure,  if  I  can  persuade  her  to 
come  ;  if  I  tell  her  that  you  are  not  strong  and  need 
her  as  a  friend,  you  are  quite  sure  she  will  be  made 
welcome?  " 

Cecile  drew  herself  up  and  lifted  back  her  head 
with  a  curious  gesture  of  pride,  almost  of  disdain. 

"  I  do  not  forget  the  obligations  of  the  chateau," 
she  said. 

He  lowered  his  head,  remembering  an  old  old 
legend  of  the  Count  who,  centuries  ago,  had  be- 
guiled an  enemy  to  the  chateau  under  guise  of  friend- 
ship. The  enemy  years  later  had  died  in  an  under- 
ground dungeon  of  the  chateau,  leaving  a  curse 
upon  the  Grandcceur  line.  .  .  .  Then  he  looked 
upon  Cecile's  face  again,  and  his  glance  fell  from 


THE   SANCTUARY 


the  pale  whiteness  of  it  to  the  slender  hands  below, 
as  though  of  his  unbidden  thoughts,  he  was  ashamed. 
"  I  will  see  the  American  to-night,"  he  said.  "  My 
child  —  adieu/' 


315 


VI. 

IT  was  Lamore  that  came  with  Blair  Martin  in 
the  carriage,  and  mounted  with  her  the  broad 
chateau  steps  where  at  the  top  Cecile  stood 
awaiting  them.  She  gave  a  glance  of  surprise  as 
she  recognized  Lamore  helping  the  American  to 
alight  from  the  victoria.  She  had  not  supposed  he 
knew  the  time  the  chateau  carriage  was  to  meet  her 
guest. 

"  He  does  not  trust  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  the 
hot  color  mounting  to  her  usually  pale  cheeks,  but 
by  the  time  Lamore  and  the  American  had  reached 
her,  she  showed  no  trace  of  any  emotion  except  that 
of  welcome. 

"  Mademoiselle  does  me  honor,"  she  said  in  her 
pretty  English,  "  I  am  Mademoiselle's  debtor  that 
she  should  consent  to  come  and  lift  my  loneliness.  I 
see  the  Father  brought  you." 

Lamore  stood  watching  them  —  the  slender  dark- 
eyed  woman  of  title,  the  tall  American  with  the  deep 
gray  eyes,  and  a  sudden  wonder  came  to  him.  They 
were  both  so  different,  and  yet  in  manner  and  bear- 
ing, not  unlike. 

"  Father  Lamore  insisted  on  coming.  Were  you 
afraid  I  should  seem  strange  and  shy  ?  "  Blair  Mar- 
tin turned  on  him  with  a  laugh. 

Lamore  looked  past  her  to  Cecile. 

316 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  I  came  with  your  friend  that  I  might  see  her  in 
safe  hands,"  he  said.  Then  his  glance  came  back  to 
the  American.  "  When  one  is  in  a  foreign  land," 
he  said,  "  protection  is  due  as  well  as  hospitality." 
He  was  conscious  that  Cecile  moved  restlessly. 

"  Shall  the  maid  show  you  to  your  room  ?  "  she 
asked  in  French.  "  Doubtless  the  boys  have  brought 
your  luggage  by  now.  If  you  will  give  her  the 
keys  she  will  make  you  comfortable.  I  have  found 
her  trustworthy  —  as  all  the  others  that  are  recom- 
mended by  the  good  Father  here." 

"  Thank  you,  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  unpacked  again. 
My  trunks  were  the  wonder  of  Toinette.  Do  you 
ever  work  yourself  in  that  wonderful  garden?  "  she 
turned  and  faced  the  long  terraces.  "  I  used  to  help 
Toinette  with  the  flowers  and  peas."  She  smiled  a 
little,  as  at  a  pleasant  remembrance,  and  softly 
smoothed  the  folds  of  her  sheer  embroidered  gown. 
The  priest  and  the  dark-eyed  Comtesse  watched  her. 
To  both  of  them  came  the  thought  that  she  made  a 
pretty  picture  standing  there  in  the  great  doorway, 
her  face,  her  form,  half  turned  from  them,  in  un- 
conscious grace.  She  seemed  so  sure  of  herself  and 
the  sincerity  of  the  welcome  here. 

"  I  love  the  flowers,  Mademoiselle,  and  I  often 
rob  Giovanni  of  his  choicest  treasures,  but  as  for 
vegetables  —  "  the  Comtesse  shrugged  her  shoulders 
a  little  and  laughed  —  "  they  are  good  to  eat,  I 
think,  but  not  to  tend." 

Blair  Martin  raised  her  eyes,  the  amused  and 
happy  light  still  lingering  in  them. 

317 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  So  I  once  thought,"  she  said  and  turned  to  go. 

After  she  had  gone  through  the  shadows  of  the 
great  doorway  in  company  with  Cecile's  maid,  La- 
more  turned  to  the  French  woman. 

"  I  trust,  my  child,  you  will  be  to  each  other  all 
you  should  be." 

Cecile's  eyes  came  back  from  the  great  doorway. 

"  And  how  much,  Father,  is  that  ?  " 

"  Do  I  need  to  tell  you?  I  can  trust  you  not  to 
forget  that  you  have  asked  for  a  friend." 

She  looked  at  him  from  lowered  eyelids,  but  he 
knew  of  the  sudden  fire  burning  in  the  depths  be- 
neath. 

'  You  need  not  remind  me.  You  can  trust  me  to 
remember,  Father,  that  I  am  chatelaine  of  the  cha- 
teau." 

He  bowed  as  though  accepting  an  unvoiced  dis- 
missal. 

"  I  shall  trust  you,"  he  said. 

On  his  return  to  the  humble  rectory,  the  boy 
Anthony  met  him  at  the  gate.  Something  in  the 
settled  sadness  of  the  child's  face  struck  Lamore. 
He  put  his  hand  upon  the  small  shoulder,  with  re- 
assuring pressure. 

"In  trouble,  Anthony?" 

The  boy  did  not  answer,  but  in  spite  of  his  ef- 
fort at  control,  his  lips  trembled. 

"My  child  —  what  is  it?  Has  Jean  tried  to 
force  you  to  fight  again?  Did  not  the  birds  sing 
for  you  in  the  woods  to-day  ?  " 

318 


**  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

The  boy  controlled  himself  with  an  effort. 

"  The  birds  sang  their  sweetest,  Father,  and 
Jean  —  he  does  not  dare  to  fight  me,"  the  quiet 
eyes  took  on  quick  fire.  "  It  is  not  that,  Fa- 
ther—" 

"Then?" 

"  The  American  lady,  Father.  You  have  taken 
her  —  up  to  the  great  chateau." 

"  She  has  gone  to  cheer  the  Comtesse  and  help 
her  to  get  well,  my  child,"  said  Lamore,  his  kind 
hold  increasing  on  the  other's  shoulder.  "  Are 
you  not  glad  ?  " 

"Glad,  Father?"  The  boy  turned  on  him,  his 
voice  ringing  out  sharp  and  defiant  on  the  air. 
"  What  right  has  the  American  to  go  to  the  cha- 
teau?" 

"  Anthony !  "  Never  had  the  boy  heard  the 
Father's  voice  like  that,  and  he  felt  Lamore's  kind 
grasp  relax.  "  My  child  —  have  you  a  better 
right?" 

The  boy  stood  off  from  him,  his  rough  peasant 
blouse  shining  out  against  the  background  of  the 
yard's  dark  trees,  his  head  raised  proudly.  He 
threw  out  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of  passionate 
grief. 

"  I  have  no  right  —  yet  —  we  have  waited  — 
the  Mademoiselle  and  I  and  —  it  was  for  her  the 
Comtesse  sent  — "  He  broke  off  suddenly,  and 
without  another  word  turned  and  fled  into  the  fast- 
ness of  the  near-by  wood. 

For  a  moment  Lamore  seemed   as  though  he 

319 


THE   SANCTUARY 


would  go  after  him,  then  he  stopped,  grave 
thought  fulness  in  his  face. 

"  So  !  My  little  one  has  been  worshiping  at 
the  shrine  of  an  unknown  divinity  and  —  jealous 
of  usurpation.  Some  day  when  the  Comtesse  sees 
you,  she  will  not  let  you  go  again  for  all  the  Amer- 
icans in  the  world  —  some  day,  little  Anthony." 

He  walked  slowly  toward  the  house,  crossed  the 
deserted  kitchen  and  went  into  his  study  and  locked 
the  door.  He  was  conscious  that  he  wanted  and 
needed  to  be  alone. 

He  drew  to  the  white  curtains  at  the  windows, 
pausing  for  a  moment  to  look  out  across  the  waters 
in  the  direction  of  Marseilles.  The  evening  was 
a  quiet  one.  An  old  moon  crept  over  the  edge  of 
the  horizon,  at  first  silver,  then  turning  to  gold  as 
the  purple  clouds  melted  into  gray  and  black.  By 
and  by  he  came  back  to  the  table.  On  his  blotter 
lay  a  letter.  He  picked  it  up  with  an  exclamation 
of  surprise,  recognizing  Hector  Stone's  handwri- 
ting on  the  envelope. 

He  sat  down  in  his  arm-chair,  lighted  the  lamp 
and  drew  it  nearer.  Then  he  slowly  opened  the 
letter.  It  was  the  confession  Stone  had  written 
him  from  Detroit.  It  enclosed  the  letter  Stone  had 
received  that  day  from  Cecile. 

Outside  the  last  faint  traces  of  the  daylight  faded 
—  inside  the  glow  of  Lamore's  study  lamp  burned 
steadily  on.  Once,  twice,  he  read  the  letters,  then 
replaced  them  in  the  envelope  and  rose  and  went 
back  to  the  window.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen 

320 


3%  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

except  the  stretch  of  water  lighted  by  the  rays  of 
the  old  moon.  They  had  all  of  them,  Hector  Stone 
consciously,  Blair  Martin  and  Cecile  unconsciously, 
brought  the  twisted,  tangled  threads  to  him  for  the 
unweaving.  It  seemed  to  him  he  was  like  one  of 
the  workers  he  had  watched  at  the  great  tapestries 
in  Flanders  as  a  boy.  Like  them,  he  was  weaving 
on  the  reverse  side  of  the  great  pattern  of  these 
lives.  Yet  the  pattern  that  he  sought  to  copy  was 
before  him,  clear  and  perfect.  If  it  might  be  that 
from  among  the  tangled  skeins  and  knotted  ends 
his  hands  might  sort  the  somber  shades  and  bring 
forth  the  strong  bright  threads  of  gold! 

Far  into  the  night  he  sat  writing  at  his  desk. 
The  letter  to  Stone  finished,  he  enclosed  in  it  the 
one  Stone  had  sent  him  from  Cecile.  Afterwards 
he  took  Stone's  letter  and  twisted  it  into  a  torch 
which  he  lighted  at  the  lamp,  and  burning,  threw 
it  in  the  empty  fireplace.  In  silence,  he  watched 
it  crumble  until  it  was  a  withered  and  charred  mass. 
Then  he  picked  up  the  lamp  from  the  study  table 
and  slowly  walked  away  to  bed. 


321 


VII. 

AT  first  Blair  Martin  settled  as  naturally  to 
the  life  lived  at  the  chateau  on  the  heights 
as  she  had  settled  at  Toinette's  cottage  in 
the  valley.  She  had  a  nature,  inherited  from  her 
mother,  of  keen  sensitiveness  to  changes,  and  an 
equal  faculty  from  her  father  that  made  her  adapt 
herself  to  places,  people  and  the  environment  in 
which  she  found  herself.  She  returned  to  the  lux- 
uries of  life,  the  spacious  rooms,  the  perfectly 
cooked  food,  the  well-trained  servants  that  were 
always  near  to  do  her  bidding,  as  though  she  had 
never  known  weeks  in  Toinette's  sanded  cottage, 
with  its  primitive  furniture  and  only  Toinette  to 
serve  her  needs.  But  there  came  an  hour  when 
the  luxuries  to  which  she  had  been  used  and  to 
which  she  had  so  unexpectedly  returned,  palled  on 
her,  and  she  was  ashamed  to  acknowledge  to  her- 
self how  she  missed  the  loaf  of  black  bread  Marie 
never  sent  her  now,  the  simple  work  in  Toinette's 
garden,  and  more  than  all  else  the  sight  of  and 
the  walks  with  the  boy  Anthony. 

Then  it  was  that  a  dim  disquietude  took  posses- 
sion of  her,  which  she  felt  but  could  not  explain, 
if  indeed  there  had  been  any  one  in  whom  she 
cared  to  confide.  There  had  never  come  into  her 

322 


THE   SANCTUARY 


life  any  one  to  whom  she  cared  to  carry  the  per- 
plexities of  her  life,  since  her  mother's  death,  and 
now  she  tried  to  shake  the  impression  from  her  as 
one  would  shake  the  impression  of  an  evil  dream. 
She  had  never  realized  until  now  just  what  a  strong 
hold  the  boy  Anthony  had  exerted  on  her  life,  and 
she  was  loth  to  admit  to  herself  that  she  wished 
for  Toinette  Dorset's  cottage  with  its  sanded  floors. 
She  had  left  the  cottage  and  the  lesson  of  simple 
happiness  she  was  learning  there,  because  Lamore 
had  come  to  her  and  pleaded,  with  an  eloquence  not 
to  be  resisted,  for  another  woman  —  a  stranger  — 
and  her  need.  In  those  first  days  at  the  chateau 
it  came  almost  as  a  shock  to  her  that  she  saw  so 
little  of  her  hostess.  There  was  never  any  tangible 
thing,  any  one  act  to  which  she  could  cling  that 
would  warrant  the  odd  resentment  that  sometimes 
came  to  her.  When  she  saw  the  Comtesse  —  which 
was  never  before  the  noon  meal  —  she  could  not 
question  the  ease  and  the  charm  with  which  she 
was  always  greeted.  Her  every  physical  need  was 
satisfied  almost  before  she  could  voice  them;  the 
horses  and  the  new  motor  car  from  Paris  were  at 
her  disposal;  in  Hannah's  absence  (which  Blair 
Martin  insisted  on,  fearing  friction  with  the  chateau 
retinue)  there  had  been  assigned  to  her  use  a  maid 
who  did  her  duties  admirably;  the  freedom  of  the 
great  halls,  the  long  picture  gallery  with  its  square 
projecting  window  of  wonderful  stained  glass  at 
the  furthest  end,  the  music  room  so  perfectly  ap- 
pointed, were  hers  with  a  lavish  sharing  that  she 

323 


m  TH'E   SANCTUARY  m 

could  not  doubt.  The  earlier  peace,  however,  the 
peace  that  had  come  to  her  at  Toinette's,  that  she 
had  been  gratefully  conscious  of  when  in  the  com- 
panionship of  the  boy  Anthony;  the  peace  that  she 
had  felt  when  she  had  first  come  to  the  chateau  in 
Lamore's  care  seemed  to  have  vanished,  and  she 
wondered  how  and  why  and  where  it  had  gone. 
She  spent  hours,  when  the  Comtesse  was  resting  or 
otherwise  occupied,  in  the  music  room,  whose  every 
appointment  appealed  to  her  keen  artistic  sense. 
Here  she  would  take  from  the  long  unused  case 
her  bow  and  her  violin  and  practise  long  and  dif- 
ficult scales,  finding  in  the  very  difficulty  an  obsta- 
cle that  taxed  her  mental  powers  to  their  uttermost 
and  prevented  the  intrusion  of  dangerous  or  un- 
profitable thoughts.  She  never  knew  the  unnum- 
bered times  that  the  Comtesse  gave  strict  orders  for 
silence  in  the  music  wing,  where  she  listened  her- 
self, unseen,  from  a  curtained  recess  of  which  Blair 
Martin  knew  nothing.  Cecile,  herself,  in  these  hours 
would  watch  the  face  of  the  musician  and  study 
its  every  change.  Her  own  well-trained  and  tal- 
ented ear  delighted  in  the  difficult  gymnastics  that 
Blair  Martin  attempted  and  with  a  dogged  patience 
persisted  in  until  overcome.  At  other  times,  weary 
of  the  effort  such  exercises  were  to  her,  she  would 
rest  a  little,  and  then  with  eyes  turned  from  the 
music  rack  to  the  view  stretching  in  front  of  her 
from  the  chateau  window,  she  would  draw  the  bow 
across  the  strings  and  give  herself  up  to  the  de- 
licious rapture  of  some  rendering  of  Beethoven,  or 

324 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

perhaps  even  some  impromptu  bit  of  her  own.  It 
was  in  these  times  that  the  Comtesse  saw  the  Amer- 
ican as  she  was  —  the  soul  of  her  laid  bare  —  and 
half  ashamed,  half  awed,  would  creep  from  her 
hiding  place  upstairs,  and  fling  herself  upon  her 
couch,  exhausted.  If  the  trained  musician  in  her 
admired  the  persevering  efforts  of  a  musician,  in 
technique,  perhaps,  less  gifted  than  herself,  the 
woman  in  her  responded  to  the  inimitable  tone  of 
feeling  which  Blair  Martin  called  forth  from  the  taut 
strings.  Later,  facing  her  at  dinner,  she  searched 
in  vain  for  that  look  upon  her  face  that  had  rested 
there  earlier  in  the  day,  as  she  had  played. 

"Music  or  —  love?"  she  said  to  herself  slowly 
on  one  such  occasion.  "  Music  and  love,"  she 
added  to  her  heart  later. 

The  American  began  to  have  a  newer  and  a  more 
personal  charm  for  her,  and  more  and  more  she 
arranged  to  see  her  oftener.  They  always  had  cof- 
fee together  on  the  terrace  in  the  garden  in  the 
afternoon,  and  here  Lamore,  when  his  time  and 
duties  would  permit,  joined  them.  Cecile  alone 
was  conscious  of  his  close  scrutiny. 

His  talk  was  rarely  of  any  personal  matters, 
and  his  wit,  his  quaint  sayings,  his  shrewd  yet 
kindly  observations,  his  unfailing  sympathy,  be- 
came things  to  be  remembered,  and  his  visits  were 
looked  for  eagerly.  It  was  on  one  such  occasion 
that  he  came  on  Blair  Martin  seated  on  the  terrace 
with  her  sewing.  A  strange  droop  to  her  mouth 
made  him  ask  quickly  as  he  took  her  hand : 

325 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  Mademoiselle,  are  you  lonely  on  the  heights?  " 

She  nodded  a  little  wistfully  that  Cecile,  who 
was  approaching,  might  hear  no  voiced  answer. 
Lamore's  eyes  grew  suddenly  grave  as  he  turned 
to  greet  the  Comtesse  and  helped  her  to  arrange 
her  chair  before  the  embroidery  frame  the  servant 
had  brought  out,  but  it  was  almost  wholly  to  Blair 
Martin  that  he  addressed  himself  during  the  rest 
of  that  long  warm  afternoon,  as  they  sipped  the 
coffee  Cecile  served  to  them,  and  watched  the  gold 
and  amethyst  lights  rest  upon  the  waters.  In  si- 
lence Cecile  bent  over  the  embroidery  frame,  put- 
ting in  the  last  stitches  on  the  frontal,  so  intent 
upon  her  task  that  she  heeded  little  of  the  conversa- 
tion going  on  near  her,  and  for  once  in  her  life 
grateful  that  some  one  else  had  undertaken  the 
entertainment  of  Lamore.  She  fastened  the  last 
thread  off  with  a  sigh,  and  for  a  little  while  sat 
forward  in  her  chair,  her  chin  in  her  long  slender 
hand,  regarding  the  finished  work.  The  frontal 
was  done  and  she  had  brought  it  herself  back  to 
France,  back  to  St.  Michael's.  Presently  she  rose 
and  stood  by  Lamore's  chair,  her  hand  resting  on 
the  wicker.  She  waited  until  there  was  a  lull  in 
the  talk;  then  she  spoke  gently. 

"  Father,  the  frontal  is  done.  Do  you  care  to 
see  it?" 

Lamore  and  Blair  Martin  rose  hurriedly  and 
walked  over  to  the  embroidery  frame,  where  from 
its  roll  of  linen  the  already  completed  part  was 
taken,  the  frame  undone  and  the  thing  revealed  as 

326 


THE   SANCTUARY 


a  whole.  At  first,  Lamore  and  Cecile  held  it  end 
by  end,  and  Blair  Martin  looked  at  it  in  a  silence 
more  eloquent  than  speech.  Still  silent,  she  took 
the  end  that  Lamore  held,  and  the  priest  stepped 
off  a  little  way,  the  better  to  see. 

"  Beautiful  !  "  he  said  slowly,  and  to  himself  he 
added,  "  Worthy  of  St.  Michael's." 

Together,  under  Cecile's  direction,  Lamore  and 
the  American  rolled  it  in  its  linen,  when  a  maid 
was  called  and  directed  to  take  it  to  the  house  and 
later  carry  in  the  now  empty  frame.  Cecile  watched 
the  latter  as  it  was  being  taken  away,  remembering 
the  day  the  big  piece  had  been  started  in  the  subur- 
ban home  with  Hector  Stone,  and  she  scarcely 
heard  the  words  of  praise  now  spoken  of  her  work 
until  a  remark  of  Blair  Martin's  brought  her  back 
to  the  present. 

"  Ah,  Father,  I  would  like  to  see  his  face  when 
he  first  looks  on  the  frontal." 

"  Marie  told  him  something  of  it.  I  heard  her 
one  evening,  after  supper,  from  my  study,  but  the 
boy  is  strangely  reticent  these  days  and  he  said 
nothing,"  replied  Lamore. 

"  Does  he  miss  me  —  a  little  —  do  you  sup- 
pose?" asked  Blair  Martin,  half  shyly,  half  hope- 
fully. Lamore  was  relieved  of  the  necessity  of  a 
reply  by  Cecile  coming  quite  close  to  them. 

"  Of  whom  are  you  speaking  so  earnestly  ?  Is 
it  of  Marie's  little  son?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Blair  Martin  eagerly.  "  Is  it 
possible  you  have  never  seen  the  boy  Anthony  — 

327 


THE   SANCTUARY 


the  child  the  Father  here  loves  so  —  with  the  face, 
the  voice,  of  an  angel?  Send  for  him,  Comtesse, 
let  him  sing  you  a  Canticle  or  the  slumber  song 
of  the  Swiss  children,"  she  went  on  impetuously, 
and  so  intent  was  she,  so  absorbed  Cecile  in 
watching  this  awakening  of  enthusiasm  in  her 
guest,  that  neither  heeded  the  Father's  anxious 
face. 

"  Yes,  yes,  surely  !  How  is  it,  Father,  I  have 
not  seen  the  child  before?  " 

"  There  was  nothing  that  might  bring  him  to  the 
chateau  except  his  grandfather,  old  Giovanni,  and 
the  lad  is  shy." 

"  Ah  !  And  Giovanni's  grandson  —  I  must 
surely  see  him." 

Blair  Martin  caught  her  breath  in  a  quick  sigh 
of  pleasure. 

"  I  wish  that  you  might  learn  to  know  him  as 
I  did  down  there  in  the  valley.  He  has  so  many 
varying  moods,  I  never  tire  of  studying  him.  Once 
he  brought  me  here  to  the  chateau  garden,  when 
Giovanni  was  asleep,  and  he  walked  the  paths  with 
me  as  a  little  prince  might  walk.  Another  day  he 
brought  me  one  of  Marie's  black  loaves  with  the 
simple  bearing  of  a  little  peasant." 

"  Delightful  !  He  must  come  up  here  again  and 
walk  the  garden  with  me  —  as  a  little  prince. 
Father,  you  will  tell  Marie  I  sent  for  him,  and  let 
him  bring  me  a  loaf  of  her  black  bread  that  I  may 
see  these  varying  moods  —  that  I  may  see  him, 
like  the  simple  little  peasant  that  he  is." 

328 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Lamore  bowed.  The  Comtesse's  speech  had  been 
at  once  a  request  and  a  command. 

It  was  the  next  day  that  the  boy  Anthony,  the 
black  loaf  still  hot,  wrapped  in  coarse  yet  spotless 
linen,  ascended  on  foot  the  heights  to  the  chateau. 
Marie  had  watched  him  depart,  pride  and  fear 
struggling  for  the  mastery  in  her  breast.  She 
would  have  changed  the  simple  blouse  of  blue  for 
his  Sunday  best,  had  not  Lamore  by  chance  come 
in  just  then  with  the  brief  suggestion  that  the 
Comtesse  desired  the  boy  as  he  appeared  every 
day,  and  Marie  with  much  inward  reluctance  was 
obliged  to  see  him  go  in  his  peasant's  dress  and 
head  bared  as  usual  to  the  sun.  It  was  a  matter 
of  small  importance  to  the  boy  himself  whether  he 
wore  the  every-day  blouse  or  the  Sunday  suit; 
his  mind  was  much  too  occupied  on  his  mission 
to  care  about  such  a  trivial  thing  as  dress.  Had 
he  not  been  sent  for  from  the  chateau  at  last  — 
was  not  the  lady  of  his  dreams  awaiting  him  ?  .  .  . 
It  was  only  Lamore,  looking  on  the  boy's  face  as 
Marie  closed  the  rectory  door  on  him,  who  fully 
understood.  .  .  . 

The  afternoon  was  early  and  the  sun  beat  down 
warm,  shining  bright  on  Anthony's  head  as  he 
climbed  the  heights,  the  black  loaf  held  carefully 
in  his  hands.  He  did  not  take  the  short  cut  to-day 
by  the  wicket  gate  and  across  the  chateau  garden. 
Had  not  the  chatelaine  sent  for  him  as  she  might 
have  perhaps  for  the  Great  Cardinal  —  and  should 

329 


*B  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

he  not  come  to  her  through  the  great  wide  gates  — 
the  great  tall  gates  —  that  marked  the  entrance  to 
the  chateau? 

The  gates  once  reached,  he  paused  to  wipe  his 
hot  flushed  face  with  the  coarse  handkerchief  from 
the  pocket  of  his  blouse.  He  handled  it  reverently, 
refolded  it  carefully.  It  was  one  the  good  Father 
had  lent  him  for  the  great  occasion.  He  wondered 
suddenly  what  made  his  mother's  black  loaf  so 
heavy  and  the  way  seem  so  long.  Through  the 
wonderful  chateau  park  he  walked,  still  following 
the  wide  carriage  drive  and  scorning  the  more 
familiar  and  shorter  cuts  through  the  woodlands. 
These  he  skirted,  patiently  bearing  the  discomfort 
of  the  heat  and  the  weariness,  for  the  hope  of  what 
lay  waiting  for  him  at  his  journey's  end.  When 
at  last  he  came  upon  the  big  chateau,  something 
in  its  aged  and  somber  grandeur,  the  heights  of 
its  turrets,  the  shining  brilliancy  of  its  many  win- 
dows, the  wondrous  beauty  of  its  long  terraces  lead- 
ing to  the  still  more  wonderful  gardens,  oppressed 
him  with  a  sudden  sense  of  awe  he  had  never  felt 
before  when  looking  on  it,  and  he  felt  remote  and 
lonely  and  very  small,  and  for  the  first  time  since 
Lamore  had  come  to  him  with  the  message  from 
the  Comtesse,  he  wished  that  he  was  in  the  valley 
among  the  vineyards  and  the  flocks. 

How  long  he  stood  there  —  a  solitary  little  fig- 
ure—  he  never  knew,  and  when  at  last  he  moved 
on,  it  was  not  to  the  great  front  entrance  he  had 
thought  of  in  his  dreams,  but  a  smaller  side  one, 

330 


THE   SANCTUARY 


used  for  the  upper  class  of  the  domestics.  Here 
he  met  one  of  the  footmen  and  delivered  his  mes- 
sage in  a  small,  shy  voice. 

The  footman  held  out  his  hands  for  the  humble 
loaf  of  black  bread. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  he  said,  "  and  your  message 
for  the  Comtesse." 

The  boy  started  suddenly  as  though  aroused 
from  a  dream,  and  he  grasped  the  black  loaf  pas- 
sionately. When  he  spoke,  the  man,  who  was  a 
stranger  to  the  Island,  started  at  his  tone  —  as 
peremptory  as  his  own  had  been,  and  touched  with 
a  note  of  pride  and  scorn. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  the  Comtesse,  who  has  sent 
for  me.  Show  me  to  her." 

Just  what  would  have  happened  here  is  doubtful 
if  the  Comtesse's  maid  had  not  been  passing.  She 
paused  to  watch  the  scene,  and  when  the  footman 
looked  as  though  he  would  have  rudely  expelled 
the  boy  through  the  door  whence  he  had  come,  she 
stepped  forward  with  a  warning  gesture. 

"  Idiot  !  Do  you  think  so  little  of  your  place 
that  you  would  offend  the  Comtesse  and  the  Fa- 
ther himself  ?  It  is  the  boy  Anthony  —  the  Fa- 
ther's charge  —  the  Comtesse  has  been  awaiting 
him  all  morning.  Show  him  to  her.  She  is  in  the 
picture  gallery  with  Mademoiselle  the  American." 

The  footman  bit  his  lip,  but  did  as  he  was  bid, 
and  the  boy  Anthony  followed  him  with  a  head 
held  as  proudly  as  though  he  were  a  prince  of  the 
blood  or  the  reigning  heir  of  the  house.  An  odd 

331 


THE   SANCTUARY 


smile  lingered  about  his  mouth  and  was  still  there 
when  the  footman  drew  aside  the  heavy  portieres 
leading  to  the  great  gallery,  and  stood  to  one  side 
for  him  to  pass. 

"  The  boy  Anthony,"  he  announced. 

The  boy  Anthony  took  a  step  forward  and  the 
curtains  fell  noiselessly  behind  him,  the  curious 
footman  linge'ring  on  the  other  side  to  discover,  if 
possible,  why  the  Comtesse  was  receiving  a  little 
peasant  boy  bearing  a  gift  of  black  bread. 

For  a  moment  things  turned  dark  for  Anthony, 
and  in  that  moment  of  blindness  all  his  anger  and 
his  scorn  vanished.  He  was  about  to  see  the  great 
lady  of  the  chateau  —  the  lady  of  his  dreams  —  if 
it  should  be  that  she  should  not  be  beautiful  or 
gracious,  clad  in  outer  and  inward  loveliness  .  .  . 
if  it  should  be!  Then  his  vision  cleared  and  he 
stared  straight  ahead  of  him  up  the  length  of  the 
great  gallery,  hung  on  either  side  by  the  portraits 
of  the  long,  long  line  of  Grandcceurs.  In  an  almost 
endless  vista,  it  seemed  to  him,  they  reached,  from 
the  forebears  of  the  Count  of  the  Crusade  that  hung 
not  far  from  him,  to  the  portrait  of  a  child  at  the 
furthest  end,  near  to  the  great  stained  window  that 
bore  the  shield  and  arms  of  the  chateau,  and  in 
whose  light  a  lady  stood.  She  was  all  the  gallery 
held  for  him  after  he  had  once  raised  his  face  to 
hers  and  seen  her  clearly,  and  Blair  Martin,  seated 
on  the  cushioned  window-seat  and  half  hidden  by 
the  velvet  curtain,  watched  them  undisturbed.  At 
the  announcement  of  the  footman,  Cecile  had 

332 


THE   SANCTUARY 


smiled  and  laid  aside  her  work  with  a  gesture  of 
pretty  and  gracious  condescension;  the  next,  when 
the  portieres  had  fallen  behind  the  child  and  he 
had  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  great  gallery  alone,  a 
simple  childish  figure  in  a  simple  childish  blouse, 
she  had  risen  to  her  feet  with  a  sharp  exclamation 
of  surprise.  Her  work  fell  unheeded  to  the  floor. 
Blair  Martin  saw  her  glance  once  toward  the  por- 
trait on  her  right  —  a  wonderful  portrait,  painted 
by  a  master's  hand,  of  a  child  —  a  prince  perhaps 
—  walking  in  a  garden,  a  great  hound  by  his  side  ; 
the  black  velvet  of  his  suit,  the  buckles  on  his  little 
shoes,  shining  out  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  rest  of  the 
portraits  in  the  hall.  From  that  portrait,  whose 
frame  was  crowned,  like  the  stained  window,  with 
the  shield  and  arms  of  the  Grandcceurs,  back  to  the 
solitary  little  figure,  barefooted,  bareheaded,  in  his 
peasant's  blouse,  bearing  the  gift  of  black  bread  in 
his  hands,  Cecile's  look  traveled,  followed  by  Blair 
Martin's  own,  and  her  face  then  was  as  her  face 
had  been  the  night  the  little  Count  had  died. 

The  length  of  the  great  gallery  they  looked  at 
each  other  in  silence.  In  silence  the  Comtesse, 
with  a  face  like  marble,  awaited  his  coming.  In 
silence  the  little  boy  in  the  peasant's  blouse  moved 
slowly,  as  one  asleep,  up  the  length  of  the  long 
gallery  toward  the  lady  of  his  dreams.  No  sound 
within  broke  upon  that  silence  except  the  child's 
light  footfall  on  the  polished  floor;  the  portraits 
by  which  he  passed  seemed  to  look  down  on  him, 
some  smilingly,  some  curiously,  pitying  the  child 

333 


TH]E   SANCTUARY 


who  perhaps  had  lost  its  way  in  the  great  gallery. 
On  he  came,  the  gift  in  its  covering  of  white  linen 
borne  in  his  arms,  as  in  the  old  days  one  of  the 
sons  of  the  early  Count  had  borne  the  helmet  amd 
the  sword  for  him  before  he  started  on  the  long 
Crusade.  He  stepped  lightly,  yet  moved  with  a 
grace  strangely  at  variance  with  his  dress,  until 
beneath  the  picture  of  the  child  he  stood  and 
paused,  looking  up  at  the  Comtesse  and  holding 
up  his  gift  in  silence  to  her.  The  Comtesse  stepped 
from  the  raised  window-seat  to  the  gallery  floor, 
and  the  light  from  the  stained  window  seemed  to 
follow  her  and  illuminate  her  figure  in  its  dress 
of  azure  and  of  gold.  She  came  up  to  the  boy 
smiling,  and  laid  one  hand  upon  his  hair. 

Suddenly  and  without  warning  the  boy  dropped 
upon  one  knee,  as  he  had  been  taught  to  do  when 
he  greeted  the  Great  Cardinal,  and  with  eyelids 
instinctively  lowered,  as  though  to  hide  from  all 
human  gaze  the  love  and  worship  that  dwelt  in 
their  clear  depths,  he  raised  his  gift  to  her,  while 
he  stooped  to  kiss  her  hand. 


334 


VIII. 

THAT  night  the  Comtesse  did  not  appear  for 
dinner,  which  Blair  Martin  had  alone  in 
the  great  dining-room,  and  the  next  day 
she  spent  alone  also,  as  the  Comtesse's  maid  an- 
nounced that  she  was  ill.  She  spent  hours  in  wan- 
dering around  the  chateau  before  she  settled  her- 
self to  some  long-delayed  letter-writing  in  the  quiet 
of  the  perfectly  appointed  boudoir  connected  with 
the  suite  she  occupied.  She  found  it  difficult  to 
concentrate  her  thoughts  that  insisted  on  dwelling 
on  other  things  than  the  task  at  her  hands.  Ear- 
lier in  the  day  she  had  gone  to  the  chateau  garden, 
with  the  intention  of  gathering  some  flowers  for 
the  Comtesse,  but  Giovanni,  who  had  been  jealously 
watching  her,  learning  of  her  errand,  had  an- 
nounced shortly  that  he  himself  had  taken  the 
garden's  best  to  the  chatelaine  an  hour  ago.  She 
had  risen  from  her  knees  by  the  bed  of  lilies  with! 
a  quick  indrawing  of  the  breath  that  very  success- 
fully hid  from  the  dimmed  eyes  of  the  old  gar- 
dener the  hurt  his  words  had  given.  The  few  lil- 
ies that  she  had  gathered  had  slipped  to  her  feet, 
and  she  had  not  been  conscious  of  it  as  she  took 
her  way  toward  the  house.  The  odd  resentment 
that  had  come  to  her  of  late  returned  strong  and 
throbbing  —  an  almost  tangible  thing.  Why  had 

335 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Lamore  urged  her  to  come  here,  where  even  the 
old  Italian  gardener,  so  tender  with  the  flowers, 
so  devoted  to  his  mistress,  treated  her  with  veiled 
disrespect?  The  curtains  at  the  Comtesse's  bed- 
room windows  were  drawn  as  though  to  shut  her 
out,  and  it  seemed  to  her  for  a  moment  as  though 
she  walked  the  paths  of  some  shadowed  and  en- 
chanted place  of  mystery  alone  and  unprotected. 
How  often  she  had  read  such  tales  in  German  to 
the  boy  Anthony  at  sunset  on  the  steps  of  Toi- 
nette's  cottage!  Would  that  she  were  back  again 
at  Toinette's.  Would  that  the  boy  Anthony  was 
with  her  now.  As  though  in  answer  to  her  wish, 
and  as  though  in  truth  she  walked  the  paths  of 
Anthony's  fairy  tales,  she  saw  him  crossing  by  the 
box  hedge  at  a  corner  of  the  garden.  She  stood 
still,  waiting  for  him,  wondering  what  had  brought 
him  here  to-day.  He  came  on  unconscious  of  her, 
and  would  have  passed  her  but  that  she  put  out  a 
detaining  hand  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 
The  boy  started  as  though  from  a  dream. 

"  Is  there  anything  that  I  can  do  for  you,  An- 
thony?" 

He  shook  his  head.  It  seemed  to  her  for  the 
first  time  since  he  had  come  so  intimately  into  her 
life,  he  was  impatient  to  be  gone. 

"  Nothing,  Mademoiselle,  and  many  thanks. 
The  Comtesse  sent  for  me,  and  I  am  just  return- 
ing home.  Did  you  know  that  our  lady  was  ill?" 
He  looked  at  her  with  grave,  troubled  eyes.  "  She 
is  ill,"  he  repeated  slowly. 

336 


THE   SANCTUARY 


Blair  Martin  smiled  kindly. 

"  It  is  surely  nothing  serious,  Anthony,  or  I 
should  have  known,  or  —  '  noticing  that  the 
shadow  did  not  lift  from  the  child's  face  —  "or 
the  good  Father  would  have  been  sent  for." 

The  boy  raised  his  clear  eyes  to  her. 

"  True,  Mademoiselle.  She  would  have  sent  for 
the  good  Father.  How  kind  of  you  to  think  of 
that.  Yet  —  " 

"Yet  what,  Anthony?" 

"  She  lies  so  white  and  still,  Mademoiselle,  on 
the  long  couch.  Then  she  makes  me  kneel  down 
by  her  and  she  takes  my  face  between  her  hands, 
and  once  —  " 

"Yes,  Anthony?" 

"  She  weeps,  oh,  Mademoiselle,  she  weeps." 

The  boy  looked  up  at  the  Comtesse's  window 
and  its  drawn  curtains,  and  his  lips  quivered. 

Blair  Martin  took  the  boy's  small,  sunburned 
hand  and  held  it  to  her  with  a  friendly  pressure. 
Some  instinct  warned  her  not  to  attempt  other 
familiarity.  What  was  for  the  Comtesse  was  not 
for  her,  in  spite  of  the  long  months  of  her  friend- 
ship with  the  child. 

"  She  weeps  —  for  what?  " 

"  I  know  not,  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  boy 
slowly,  and  then  he  set  his  lips  tightly  together 
and  without  another  word  turned  and  left  her. 
What  was  this  thing  that  he  had  done  ?  The  Com- 
tesse's tears  —  were  they  not  a  sacred  thing?  If 
she  had  meant  the  American  to  have  seen  —  the 

337 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

kind  American  with  the  gentle  voice  —  would  she 
not  have  wept  yesterday  in  the  long  gallery?  He? 
would  need  absolution  for  this  thing  that  he  had 
told.  And  slowly,  bowed  beneath  the  shame  of  a 
betrayal,  the  boy  Anthony  made  his  way  toward  the 
valley  and  his  home. 

Blair  Martin  watched  him  until  he  was  out  of 
sight,  then  turned  to  the  house.  Just  what  it  was 
that  led  her  steps  to  the  long  gallery  she  could  not 
have  told,  but  she  found  herself  there  and  walking 
its  long  deserted  length  until  she  stood  beneath  the 
portrait  of  the  little  Count.  Long  she  looked  at  it 
until  the  velvet  suit  and  the  big  buckles  on  the  little 
shoes  and  even  the  form  of  the  great  hound  faded, 
and  in  its  place  she  saw  again  a  little  peasant's 
blouse,  but  the  faces  of  both  children  were  strangely 
alike  —  the  face  of  the  boy  Anthony  and  the  face 
of  the  little  Count  who  had  died  —  except  that  in 
the  boy  she  knew  was  a  maturity  of  form  and  ex- 
pression she  sought  for  in  vain  in  the  picture  of  the 
dead  heir  of  the  Grandcoeurs. 

She  sat  down  on  the  raised  window  seat  in  the 
deserted  gallery,  remembering  yesterday.  The 
shafts  of  light  fell  in  long  stretches  through  the 
stained  glass  of  the  window  to  the  floor.  She  could 
not  take  her  eyes  from  the  picture. 

"  'It  is  for  this  that  she  is  ill  to-day,"  she  thought, 
the  odd  resentment  giving  way  to  pity,  "  it  is  for 
this  she  sent  for  Anthony  again.  It  is  why  she 
weeps." 


338 


IX. 

THE  next  night  the  Comtesse  came  down  to 
dinner,  and  the  two  women  met  by  the  long 
table  with  its  fine  damask  and  splendid 
linen.  In  the  hours  since  Cecile's  seclusion  Blair 
Martin  had  often  fancied  what  the  meeting  would 
be,  and  hardly  cared  to  acknowledge  to  herself  her 
inward  dread  of  it.  The  longing  to  leave  it  all  — 
the  grandeur  of  the  chateau,  its  strange  chatelaine 
—  had  come  to  her  again,  following  in  the  wake 
of  the  wave  of  pity  she  had  felt  in  the  deserted 
gallery  the  day  before.  Soon  —  as  soon  as  she 
could  —  she  would  make  her  excuses  to  Lamore 
and  the  Comtesse,  and  join  Hannah  in  Devonshire, 
since  she  might  not  now  in  courtesy  return  to  Toi- 
nette's.  She  could  hear  the  Comtesse's  light  foot- 
fall on  the  great  stair  in  the  hall;  she  could  hear 
it  coming  nearer,  and  she  stood  waiting  by  her 
chair,  looking  down  at  the  white  and  silver  of  the 
chateau  dining  table.  When  she  came  and  stood 
by  her,  the  slender,  dark-eyed  mistress  of  all  this 
lonely  splendor,  Blair  Martin  forgot  alike  pity  and 
resentment  in  admiration.  To-night  it  seemed  to 
her  she  saw  the  Comtesse  as  she  really  was,  the 
acme  of  the  culture,  the  refinement,  the  beauty  and 
the  graciousness  of  a  princely  line.  She  watched 

339 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

her  from  the  far  end  of  the  table;  she  listened, 
herself  almost  in  silence,  believing  that  in  truth 
one  of  Anthony's  fairy  tales  had  come  to  life.  The 
Comtesse  talked  on  books,  on  politics,  on  music 
and  on  art;  of  the  latest  edict  from  the  Holy 
Father,  of  the  peasants'  crops  in  the  valleys  far 
below  the  chateau  heights,  of  her  hopes  and  plans 
for  the  further  education  of  the  peasant  children, 
as  though  she  were  exerting  herself  to  charm  and 
hold  an  assembly  in  a  court  salon,  or  the  Great 
Cardinal  himself,  instead  of  one  woman  —  a  guest, 
almost  a  stranger. 

"  To-night  I  know  her  as  she  is,"  thought  Blair 
Martin,  as  they  rose  and  together  stepped  out  on 
to  the  terrace.  "  No  wonder  that  Lamore  and  the 
people  love  her,  or  the  Great  Cardinal  listens  while 
she  talks." 

But  on  the  terrace  the  Comtesse  sat  quiet  for 
a  long  while,  looking  out  over  the  chateau  garden 
and  watching  the  moon  rise  from  the  sea.  With 
the  darkness  of  the  night  lit  only  by  the  young 
moon  and  stars,  with  the  scent  of  the  flowers  and 
shrubs  close  by,  it  was  as  if  the  brilliant  mood  of 
wit  and  learning  had  fallen  from  her  like  a  cloak, 
and  she  had  left  it  behind  in  the  lighted  dining 
room.  Here,  in  the  sweetness  of  the  southern 
night  of  France,  high  on  the  chateau  hill  and  over- 
looking the  chateau  valleys  with  their  vineyards, 
it  seemed  as  though  the  quietness  of  nature  and  its 
prevailing  peace  had  become  a  part  of  her.  Blair 
Martin  watched  her  as  she  sat  in  her  wicker  gar- 

340 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

den  chair,  her  chin  resting  on  the  back  of  her 
closed  hand,  her  eyes,  dark  and  wistful,  gazing  on 
the  night.  By  and  by  her  voice  came  to  Blair 
Martin  —  low  and  soft  as  the  breeze  that  swept 
her  cheek.  She  spoke  in  English,  and  slowly,  mu- 
singly. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  on  such  a  night  that  Madrisa 
first  saw  the  stream  she  loved,"  she  said. 

"Madrisa?" 

The  Comtesse  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  the 
American. 

"  You  were  in  Switzerland  —  they  did  not  tell 
you  of  Madrisa  ?  " 

Blair  Martin  shook  her  head. 

"  It  is  a  legend?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  Mademoiselle.  I  heard  it  when  a  girl,  one 
summer  long  ago  when  I  went  to  Switzerland  with 
my  governess.  It  was  in  the  district  of  the  Vorder 
and  Hinter  Rhein,  which  is  rich  in  folk  lore  and 
in  legend.  The  people  in  the  valleys  of  the  Silvretta 
Range  are  especially  noted  for  the  quaint  stories 
that  they  tell.  There  is  not  a  child  in  all  that 
part  that  has  not  heard  of  the  doings  of  the 
Fenken  —  the  fairies  of  those  parts.  There  is 
among  them  one  —  I  know  not  quite  how  you 
would  say  it,  Mademoiselle  —  perhaps  the  queen 
—  that  figures  in  most  of  the  narratives.  Her 
name  is  Madrisa  —  a  beautiful  maiden  of  whom 
the  natives  tell  strange  tales  on  winter  evenings 
and  sing  strange  songs  on  summer  nights  —  like 
this.  Do  I  tire  you,  Mademoiselle?" 

341 


*K  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

"  No  —  no,  please  go  on." 

The  Comtesse  smiled  a  little.  She  leaned  her 
elbow  on  the  broad  arm  of  the  wicker  chair  and 
again  laid  her  chin  against  her  folded  hand. 

"  It  is  she,  Mademoiselle,  the  beautiful  maiden 
of  the  song  and  story,  who  has  given  her  name  to 
the  peak  known  as  the  Madrisahorn.  Once,  she 
fell  in  love  with  a  mountain  stream,  and  day  by 
day  and  night  by  night  she  would  rest  beside  it, 
listening  to  the  music  that  it  sang  to  her  and  look- 
ing on  the  form  which  smiled  on  her  from  its  clear 
depths.  This  was  the  beautiful  spirit  of  the  stream, 
and  it  was  always  there  except  when  the  dark 
weather  fell.  But  by  and  by  the  winter  came  with 
all  its  ice  and  chilling  frost  and  the  beautiful  spirit 
was  imprisoned  in  its  hold  —  that  tender  spirit  of 
Madrisa's  lover." 

The  low  voice  paused.  The  whispering  wind 
blew  past  them  laden  with  the  odors  of  the  garden 

—  of  the  flowers  and  the  smell  of  wet  box  after 
the  summer's  rain.     The  Comtesse  did  not  move. 
Her  eyes  still  searched  the  night.     By  and  by  she 
took  up  the  tale  again. 

"  Then  —  then  it  was  that  Madrisa  could  not 
see  her  beloved  —  she  could  only  hear  him  moan 
in  his  distress.  And  they  resolved  —  he  and  she  — 
that  were  he  ever  released  again,  the  two  of  them 
would  hasten  to  happier,  fairer  lands,  where  win- 
ter was  unknown  —  lands  the  winds  told  them  of 

—  lands,  which  in  spring  they  had  heard  of  from 
the  returning  birds.     And  they  waited,  Mademoi- 

342 


THE   SANCTUARY 


selle,  —  the  story  does  not  tell  of  that  slow  agony 
of  waiting  —  but  sometimes  I  have  guessed  .  .  .  ' 
she  broke  off  again,  and  for  a  moment  it  seemed  as 
though  her  eyes  sought  those  of  the  American. 
Then  she  went  on.  "  At  length  the  spring  came 
and  once  more  Madrisa  and  her  lover  saw  each 
the  other's  face.  They  decided  to  go  at  once  to 
the  happy  lands  the  winds  and  the  birds  had  told 
them  of  so  much,  where  they  would  marry  and 
live  happy  ever  after.  .  .  .  Poor  Madrisa!  Poor 
Spirit  of  the  Stream  !  They  started,  Mademoiselle, 
but  they  had  not  made  a  two  days'  journey  before 
the  water  of  the  stream  was  mixed  with  other 
waters  and  became  so  clouded  she  could  not  see 
his  face.  His  voice,  too,  was  not  as  it  had  been 
in  the  old  days,  but  was  sad  and  mournful  —  full 
of  the  talk  of  terrors  she  knew  nothing  of  and  of 
mysteries  to  come.  Then  Madrisa  cried  out  in  her 
dread,  '  Oh,  Beloved,  let  us  go  back  to  our  moun- 
tain home,  to  its  little  ways  and  delightful  music, 
and  if  we  can't  be  as  happy  as  we  want,  we  will 
be  as  happy  as  we  can.  Come,  Love  !  '  So,  Made- 
moiselle, they  went  back.  And  all  through  the 
summer  season  Madrisa  sees  and  knows  her  lover 
and  hears  his  voice  and  tries  not  to  remember  the 
winter  coming  with  its  dark  days  and  its  silences, 
and  it  helps  her  to  think,  '  Perhaps  I  am  happier 
and  nearer  to  him  than  I  dream.'  ' 

The  low  voice  paused,  and  the  Comtesse  rose 
from  the  wicker  chair  and  came  and  stood  by  Blair 
Martin.  The  latter  felt  her  touch  upon  her  arm. 

343 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"Mademoiselle,  that  is  all,"  she  said;  "perhaps 
you  will  remember  the  story,  too." 

An  instant  she  lingered  there  in  darkness  by 
Blair  Martin's  chair. 

"  Do  not  disturb  yourself.  Sit  here  and  dream. 
It  is  a  place  for  dreams  —  the  chateau  terrace  in 
the  moonlight.  You  will  excuse  me?  Ah,  yes,  I 
am  very  tired." 

Blair  Martin  watched  her  as  she  crossed  the 
terrace  to  the  house.  Once  she  walked  in  a  shaft 
of  clearest  moonlight  before  the  shadow  of  the 
great  chateau  enveloped  her.  At  a  casement  win- 
dow she  paused  and  looked  back,  and  though  Blair 
Martin  leaned  forward  and  tried  to  pierce  the 
shadows  that  lay  around  her  that  she  might  see  her 
face,  she  could  not.  But  Cecile's  voice  reached  her 
with  a  new  strange  note  of  tenderness  bidding  her 
good-night. 

Long  after  she  had  gone  Blair  Martin  walked 
the  terrace  alone.  She  remembered  Cecile  as  she 
had  been  at  dinner,  as  she  had  been  later  here  with 
her  —  the  varying  moods  —  the  brilliancy  of  the 
table  talk  —  the  odd  vibrating  note  of  sympathy  in 
her  voice  as  she  told  the  legend  of  the  Swiss.  The 
mystery  and  the  charm  of  the  southern  night 
around  her,  the  charm  and  the  mystery  that  hung 
around  the  chateau's  mistress  was  borne  to  her 
afresh.  She  felt  the  resentment  falling  from  her 
as  though  it  had  never  been,  and  she  stood  still, 
listening  to  the  thousand  voices  of  a  silent  night 
that  all  can  hear  who  will,  and  stared  across  the 

344 


**  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

garden  to  the  sun-dial  standing  in  a  shaft  of  light. 
As  she  looked  the  softness  of  the  light  increased 
and  above  the  dial  hung  suspended  that  long 
Bridge.  Long  —  long  she  looked  at  it  —  a  prayer 
upon  the  lips  that  were  learning  here  in  the  Island 
of  the  Angels  to  pray  again  —  and  by  and  by  there 
came  to  her  the  consciousness  of  Stone's  face.  It 
seemed  a  great  way  off  —  she  was  not  part  of  the 
Bridge  to-night  —  she  was  simply  as  one  looking 
on  a  picture.  By  and  by  the  Bridge  faded  but  the 
face  remained.  .  .  . 

An  hour  later  she  stood  at  the  casement  looking 
toward  the  sun-dial  before  she  went  indoors.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  here  to-night,  in  the  chateau 
garden,  she  knew  and  felt  faintly,  dimly,  some- 
thing of  the  end  of  things  —  the  Scheme  that  with 
infinite  patience  had  waited  for  this  hour  to  draw 
her  understanding  and  her  heart  into  Its  Vast 
Embrace. 

She  closed  the  casement  softly  and  drew  the 
curtain.  Then  she  crossed  the  great  hall  and 
climbed  the  stairs.  As  she  passed  the  apartments 
of  the  Comtesse  she  remembered  the  Swiss  story. 

"  Like  Madrisa,  '  perhaps  I  am  happier  and 
nearer  to  him  than  I  dream/  "  she  thought,  as  she 
went  to  her  own  room. 


345 


X. 

IN  the  days  that  followed  a  stillness  and  a  brood- 
ing peace  seemed  to  settle  on  the  chateau,  such 
as  it  had  not  known  in  centuries.  It  appar- 
ently came  from  no  definite  cause,  and  was  for 
all  who  tried  to  analyze  it  an  intangible  thing.  It 
was  as  if  the  mental  atmosphere  of  the  park  and 
the  chateau  and  its  inmates,  had  slowly  cleared  from 
a  lowering  danger,  as  a  threatening  storm  is  some- 
times averted  in  the  world  of  material  things,  by 
the  slow,  steady  pressure  of  a  changed  wind. 
Giovanni,  in  the  garden,  although  unconscious  of 
its  cause,  worked  with  greater  skill,  more  untiring 
patience,  and  was  surprised  to  find  himself  bring- 
ing, almost  unwittingly,  and  a  bit  grudgingly  still, 
the  tall  American,  a  daily  gift  of  flowers.  The 
tall  American  herself  grew  happier  again  and  won- 
dered if  it  was  the  remembrance  of  the  Bridge  she 
had  seen  above  the  sun  dial  in  the  garden.  The  sun 
dial  became  a  favorite  haunt  with  her,  and  here  she 
would  bring  her  work  or  books  and  sit  leaning 
against  it,  and  when  tired  of  her  task  let  her  eyes 
rest  on  the  white  sails  at  sea.  From  here,  too,  she 
could  see  St.  Michael's  in  all  its  white  splendor,  and 
the  glory  of  its  golden  cross,  and  the  church  and  the 
dial  and  the  garden  came  in  a  mysterious  way  to  be 

346 


THE   SANCTUARY 


connected,  not  so  much  with  the  Comtesse  who  was 
mistress  of  it  all,  as  with  the  face  and  form  of  Stone. 
Of  the  mistress,  she  saw  not  over  much,  yet  there 
had  grown  up  between  them,  slowly,  the  nucleus  of 
an  understanding  that  meant  much  to  them  both.  It 
was  perhaps  the  boy  Anthony  who  was  the  center 
in  those  early  days  of  their  growing  friendship, 
who  drew  them  both  as  a  vortex  draws  two  streams 
to  itself,  and  of  the  boy  Anthony  they  saw  much. 
At  the  Comtesse's  orders,  each  day,  when  the  tasks 
at  the  Rectory  were  ended,  he  climbed  the  chateau 
heights  and  came  to  them.  It  seemed  to  Blair  Mar- 
tin that  all  through  the  day  the  Comtesse  waited 
for  that  hour  —  that  it  represented  more  of  happi- 
ness to  her  than  all  her  lands  and  all  her  possessions 
and  all  her  wealth  alike.  Always,  when  she  was 
able,  she  met  him  at  the  wicket  gate  alone,  a  pleas- 
ure that  Blair  Martin,  with  the  exquisite  sensitive- 
ness that  divined  another's  need,  never  asked  to 
share.  And  when  the  little  boy  in  the  blue  peasant 
blouse  would  come  —  the  Comtesse  protested  in  her 
pretty  way  against  the  Sunday  and  the  fete-day 
suit  —  she  would  make  him  rest  a  little  on  a  stone 
bench  near  the  gate,  and  once  Blair  Martin  saw  her 
wipe  his  flushed  and  perspiring  forehead  with  her 
own  fine  handkerchief.  Sometimes  they  would  walk 
toward  Blair  Martin,  if  she  were  in  the  garden,  and 
together  they  would  all  sit  down.  The  two  of  them 
—  the  Comtesse  and  the  little  peasant  boy  —  became 
a  curious  study  to  Blair  Martin,  and  as  she  had  in 
the  old  days  at  Toinette's  cottage,  she  marveled  at 

347 


THE   SANCTUARY 


the  strange  mixture  of  simplicity  and  proud  bearing 
in  the  child.  She  watched  him  intently,  seeking  for 
a  sign  that  the  sudden  favor  of  the  Comtesse  had 
spoiled  his  manner  or  his  charm,  but  it  never  did. 
In  all  the  intercourse,  that  grew  more  intimate  as 
the  days  went  on,  he  remained  as  she  had  known 
him  first.  He  sang  for  her  again,  this  time  upon  the 
chateau  heights,  the  Canticles  and  the  Swiss  slumber 
song,  as  months  ago  he  had  sung  them  for  her  in 
the  wooded  valleys  near  his  home,  and  because  she 
wished  it  —  wished  to  see  his  expressive  face  change 
and  his  eyes  turn  from  sunlit  patches  to  shadowed 
pools  —  he  would  repeat  the  wood  lore  and  the 
legends  of  the  sea  that  Lamore  had  told  him  since 
his  birth.  Lamore  himself  would  sometimes  join 
the  group  and  watch  the  pretty  picture  that  the 
child  and  the  two  women  made.  He  was  strangely 
silent  these  days  and  used  to  study  intently  the  Com- 
tesse's  face  as  she  watched  the  child.  She  seemed, 
when  others  were  by,  to  be  content  to  listen  and  to 
watch.  It  might  have  been  that  Lamore  was  repaid 
by  his  visits  and  intent  study  of  the  Comtesse,  for 
as  day  succeeded  day  and  made  the  months,  a 
shadow  of  a  sorrow  not  his  own  lifted  from  his 
face,  and  he  would  return  to  the  Rectory  and  say  a 
prayer  before  he  wrote  to  Stone.  He  knew  that 
Stone  relied  on  him  for  news,  and  he  wrote  him  as 
one  man  writes  another  whom  he  cares  for,  with- 
holding nothing  that  he  fancied  Stone  might  want  to 
hear.  It  was  perhaps  of  Cecile's  health  alone  that 
he  was  reticent.  After  all,  there  was  nothing  tangi- 

348 


THE    SANCTUARY 


ble  —  an  added  languor  perhaps,  a  loss  of  strength", 
an  increasing  frailness  of  the  face.  Once  he  talked 
of  it  to  Blair  Martin,  who  listened,  suddenly  grown 
white  with  a  new  dread.  She  had  never  realized 
until  that  moment  all  that  this  new  growing  friend- 
ship might  mean  to  her  life.  Once  Lamore,  with  a 
tact  grown  keen  with  the  practice  of  years  in  delicate 
missions,  wrote  a  personal  letter  to  a  great  doctor  in 
Marseilles,  a  friend  of  his,  and  asked  him  to  the 
Island.  Then  he  climbed  the  chateau  heights  and 
begged  the  hospitality  of  the  chateau  for  the  eminent 
man,  urging  on  Cecile  the  impracticability  of  any  fit 
entertainment  in  the  humble  Rectory. 

"  It  is  all  your  own  fault,  Father,"  Cecile  had 
grumbled,  trying  to  conceal  her  shining  eyes. 
"  Long,  long  ago  my  uncle  wanted  to  build  you  a  fit 
home.  You  should  not  ask  eminent  men  to  visit 
you  if  you  cannot  entertain  them  yourself.  How 
much  will  the  great  doctor  see  of  you,  if  he  is 
perched  high  up  on  the  chateau  heights  ?  Shall  you 
provide  him  with  a  spy-glass  —  or  a  stethoscope  ?  " 

Lamore  started  guiltily. 

"  Who  told  you  that  I  wrote  to  him  to  come  ?  " 

Cecile  clapped  her  hands  like  a  delighted  child. 

"  Bien!  "  Then  she  touched  her  head  wisely  with 
one  finger. 

"  You  are  incorrigible,  my  child." 

"  Do  you  desire  that  the  Cardinal's  suite  be  placed 
at  his  disposal  ?  "  the  Comtesse  went  on,  rising  from 
her  chair  on  the  terrace  with  a  laugh.  "  There, 
there,  do  not  look  so  shocked.  Has  not  the  suite 

349 


*g  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

been  kept  sacred  for  centuries  for  the  cardinals  of 
the  house?  Ah,  you  do  not  mind  if  I  leave  you  for 
a  moment  ?  Your  little  Anthony  —  or  is  he  mine  ? 
—  it  is  time  that  he  were  here." 

Lamore  watched  her  as  she  crossed  the  garden  un- 
til her  slender  figure  was  lost  behind  the  foliage  of 
the  trees.  Then  the  mirth  vanished  from  his  face. 

"  The  last  of  the  line,"  he  said,  "  except  what  the 
Church  holds ;  and  no  heirs  —  no  heirs  for  all  this 
splendor  and  this  beauty." 

He  was  so  intent  on  his  own  thoughts  that  he  did 
not  hear  Blair  Martin  approaching,  and  indeed  did 
not  know  that  she  was  near  until  she  took  the  chair 
deserted  by  Cecile  and  spoke  gently  so  as  not  to 
startle  him. 

"  Dreaming  aloud,  Father  Lamore?  " 

"  Perhaps,  Mademoiselle.  And  may  I  ask  where 
you  so  adroitly  secrete  yourself  on  my  visits  of 
late?" 

"  I  fancied  Madame  the  Comtesse  would  prefer  to 
see  old  friends  alone." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  Women  are  strange  enigmas,"  he  said  with  a 
faint  smile.  "  They  can  live  weeks  together  under 
the  same  roof  and  share,  perhaps,  the  same  diver- 
sions, have  the  same  tastes  as  to  music,  perhaps,  and 
to  art,  and  yet  remain  to  each  other  '  Mademoiselle ' 
and  '  Madame  the  Comtesse.'  I  think  men  in  deal- 
ing with  men  are  less  formal." 

The  American  flushed  a  little. 

"  I  make  friends  slowly,  Father.     At  first,  to  be 

350 


THE   SANCTUARY 


quite  candid  with  you,  I  had  no  desire  to  call  the 
mistress  of  all  this  splendor  other  than  by  her  formal 
title.  I  shall  never  call  her  by  anything  less  familiar 
except  at  her  request.  Of  late  sometimes  I  have 
fancied  she  and  I  might  some  day  reach  a  point 
where  the  conventionalities  and  the  formalities  of 
life  might  melt  away  and  we  should  know  ourselves 
as  —  friends." 

Lamore  laughed  a  little. 

"  Already,  Mademoiselle,  you  are  friends,  al- 
though you  know  it  not.  Some  great  shock  — 
some  mutual  experience  —  coming  suddenly  alike  to 
you  and  her  would  reveal  you  to  each  other  as  you 
are." 

A  troubled  look  crept  over  her  face  at  his  words. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  understand  you,  Father,  nor,  if 
I  may  say  it,  do  I  think  you  understand  either  the 
Comtesse  or  myself  as  well  as  you  might  think." 

Lamore,  following  the  American's  example,  rose. 
He  bowed  a  little. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said. 

She  smiled  at  the  gravity  of  his  answer. 

"  I  promised  the  Comtesse,  that  I  would  play 
for  her  this  afternoon  after  you  and  the  boy  An- 
thony left.  Will  you  excuse  me  if  I  go  and  practise 
a  little  while?  She  tells  me  she  loves  the  violin 
and  —  Beethoven." 

"  You  do  not  ask  me  nor  the  boy  Anthony  to  re- 
main, knowing  that  we  both  love  music.  Is  that  not 
unkind,  Mademoiselle?" 

"  I  would  not  have  you  hear  my  poor  music  for 

351 


THE   SANCTUARY 


the  world  —  a  master  organist  like  you,  and  a  critic 
so  the  Comtesse  tells  me." 

"  I  can  be  lenient,  Mademoiselle,  with  those  who 
interest  me  ;  with  those  whose  technique  rather  than 
whose  interpretation  is  at  fault.  But  as  you  wish, 
of  course.  You  did  not  perhaps  know  that  the 
Comtesse  played?" 

Blair  Martin  looked  up  at  him  in  quick  surprise. 

"  Since  I  have  been  here  I  fancied  that  the  great 
piano  had  remained  untouched.  I  have  wondered, 
sometimes,  at  the  appointments  of  the  music  room. 
They  are  so  perfect.  I  should  have  guessed." 

"  The  music  room  was  added  years  ago  to  replace 
one  that  was  burned  in  the  fire  that  also  destroyed 
the  old  chapel  wing.  The  new  music  room  was 
rebuilt  under  the  personal  direction  of  the  great 
Twanciski,  a  friend  of  the  present  Comtesse's 
mother.  The  Comtesse  Clarisse,  Mademoiselle, 
was  a  superb  musician  and  one  of  Twanciski's 
pupils." 

Lamore  stopped  suddenly  and  looked  down  at  the 
gravel  at  his  feet.  For  the  first  time  since  she  had 
known  him,  in  some  way  remote  and  strange,  age 
seemed  to  touch  his  face  and  form. 

"  I  shall  be  afraid  to  play  for  the  Comtesse  now  — 
as  I  am  afraid  to  play  for  you,"  said  the  American 
to  break  the  long  pause. 

Lamore  looked  up  and  smiled  ;  the  impression  of 
age  slowly  slipped  away. 

"  The  truly  great  are  the  truly  simple,  Mademoi- 
selle. To-day  ask  the  Comtesse  —  the  little  Cecile 

352 


THE   SANCTUARY 


—  to  play  for  you  the  Russian  piece  that  her  mother 
composed.  The  Comtesse  Clarisse  used  to  play  it 
for  me  when  I  came  here  as  a  young  soldier  —  a 
kinsman  —  to  visit  the  place  .  .  ."  he  spoke  a  little 
dreamily. 

"  A  kinsman  —  I  did  not  know  —  "  said  Blair 
Martin  softly. 

"  How  should  you,  Mademoiselle  ?  A  distant  kin 
to  our  lady  here  and  to  his  Eminence  the  Great  Car- 
dinal. There  are  some  who  think  that  the  life  of  the 
Church  breaks  all  human  ties,  but  I,  Mademoiselle, 
and  the  Great  Cardinal  whose  pupil  I  still  am,  are 
not  among  the  number." 

He  bowed  to  her  again,  and  again  there  came  to 
her  the  impression  that  it  was  rather  a  courtier  and 
a  nobleman  than  a  priest,  who  spoke  to  her.  In 
silence  she  inclined  her  head  and  made  her  way  to 
the  music  room. 

Here  an  hour  later  the  Comtesse  found  her.  She 
was  standing  by  the  window  and  on  the  table  near 
was  the  open  violin  case.  The  instrument  lay  un- 
touched. 

"  I  have  come  to  hear  you  play  Beethoven  and  I 
find  you  standing  dreaming  by  the  window.  The 
good  Father  tells  me  you  excused  yourself  on  the 
plea  that  you  wanted  to  practise.  Was  it  only  an 
excuse  ?  Was  our  Island  priest  worrying  you  or 
mentioning  casually  to  you  the  benefits  of  a  con- 
version ?  " 

The  American  smiled  faintly. 

353 


THE   SANCTUARY 


11  1  need  hardly  remind  you  that  Father  Lamore 
preaches  his  faith  with  his  life.  I  had  thought  to 
practise  when  I  left  him  but  —  and  Madame  the 
Comtesse  will  excuse  me  —  I  cannot  play  Beetho- 
ven to-day." 

"  Ah  !  I  am  sorry."  It  was  characteristic  of  the 
older  woman's  breeding  and  birth  and  the  inner 
fitness  of  things  that  she  neither  urged  against  her 
will  nor  questioned  one  who  was  her  guest. 

Blair  Martin  laughed. 

"  You  would  be  sorry  if  you  heard  me  play." 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  have  often  heard  you  play. 
Your  interpretation  is  extremely  good  —  your 
touch  one,  a  player  more  perfect  in  technique,  per- 
haps, might  envy  and  strive  for  through  long 
years.  The  technique  is  the  brain  of  music,  but 
the  touch  —  its  heart." 

Blair  Martin  turned  from  the  window. 

"  You  have  heard  me  play,  Madame  —  may  I 
inquire  where  ?  " 

The  French  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders  a 
little  and  looked  at  her  half  appealingly. 

"Must  I  confess,  Mademoiselle?  I  have  heard 
you  play  right  here  in  the  chateau.  Often  —  often 
when  "you  thought  me  resting  or  away  and  came 
here  to  practise  I  would  hide  behind  that  piece  of 
Flemish  tapestry  there,  which  conceals  a  little  re- 
cess, and  listen  by  the  hour." 

The  American  flushed. 

"  You  flatter  me,  Madame.  Yet  —  I  cannot  play 
Beethoven  to  you  to-day.  One  may  play  uncon- 

354 


THE   SANCTUARY 


sciously  before  a  real  musician  where  one  cannot 
play  face  to  face." 

"  Who  told  you  that  I  played?  " 

The  American  laughed  and  brushed  an  imagi- 
nary bit  of  dust  from  the  violin  case. 

"  Who  but  Father  Lamore  ?  He  told  me  to- 
day that  you  and  he  were  kinsfolk.  Is  your  music 
like  his  own?  And  the  Russian  piece  your  mother 
composed  and  used  to  play  for  him  —  he  told  me 
to  ask  you  to  play  it  for  me."  Then  seeing  the 
Comtesse  hesitate,  she  added  quickly,  "  You  would 
not  refuse  a  request  of  his?  " 

The  Comtesse  went  to  the  great  piano  and  slowly 
opened  it. 

"  Nor  a  request  of  yours,  Mademoiselle,  that  I 
had  power  to  grant,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice  as 
she  sat  down. 

She  laid  her  long,  slender  fingers  on  the  keys. 
She  had  not  played  since  that  last  night  in  the 
suburban  home  in  far-away  America  with  Stone 
for  audience.  She  was  glad  that  her  guest  had 
not  asked  for  Schubert.  She  felt  that  she  could 
never  play  Schubert  again.  The  Russian  air  —  she 
had  almost  forgotten  it.  She  sat  quiet  a  long  time, 
looking  down  on  her  hands  resting  on  the  keys, 
and  once  she  closed  her  eyes.  Little  by  little  the 
air  of  the  piece  came  back  to  her,  and  with  it  some- 
thing that  the  Great  Cardinal  had  once  hinted  at. 
She  had  been  too  young  then  to  really  understand. 
Just  why  she  spoke  aloud  she  did  not  know. 

"  My  mother  wrote  the  piece  when  little  more 

355 


than  a  girl,  here  at  the  chateau  where  she  visited 
her  father's  people,  and  before  her  marriage  to  the 
son  of  the  old  Count.  Father  Lamore  had  a  com- 
mission in  the  French  army  then  —  had  served 
with  distinction  in  the  Soudan.  He  often  came 
here  too  —  she  used  to  play  for  him.  The  Great 
Cardinal  told  me  once,  when  I  last  played  the  piece 
for  him,  she  composed  it  the  night  the  young  cap- 
tain decided  on  the  priesthood." 

The  Comtesse  began  to  play.  Blair  Martin 
leaned  against  the  window-frame,  trembling  a  little. 

"  I  wonder  why,"  she  said  below  her  breath. 

Low  as  were  her  words  the  Comtesse  heard  her 
but  silently  played  on.  If  the  American  was  hu- 
man, possessed  of  a  woman's  heart,  a  woman's 
intuition,  the  ear  of  the  artist  —  all  of  which  she 
believed  the  American  did  possess  —  she  would  not 
question  further  what  the  Comtesse  felt  she  could 
not  answer,  after  she  had  heard  the  piece  and  its 
appeal. 

Softly  it  began  —  as  softly  as  an  awakening  of 
spring  —  and  underneath  the  softness  pulsed  the 
joy.  Then  the  movement  became  more  somber 
and  more  rapid,  and  here  and  there  were  long  runs 
ending  in  a  burst  of  passionate  despair.  From  the 
spring  time  that  reminded  one  of  the  chateau  gar- 
den at  the  door,  came  hints  of  thunder  and  of  sum- 
mer rain;  then,  like  a  dirge  that  sang  of  winter 
frosts  and  barren  Russian  steppes,  the  piece  went 
on  toward  its  close.  It  tolled  the  death-throes,  and 
it  seemed  a  human  thing  that  in  impotent  weakness 

356 


THE   SANCTUARY 


beat  against  a  will  inflexible  and  stronger  than  its 
own,  whose  force  it  could  not  break.  It  ended  as 
slowly  as  it  had  begun  and  its  climax  was  one  dis- 
cordant chord. 

Blair  Martin  leaned  against  the  window-frame, 
white  and  still. 

"  Wonderful !  "  she  said. 

By  and  by  the  Comtesse  rose  from  the  piano, 
her  soft  footfall  making  little  noise  upon  the  floor. 
She  came  and  stood  by  the  table  where  lay  the 
violin  and  lifted  it  gently  from  its  case. 

"  My  mother  was  a  Russian,"  her  voice,  low  and 
cultivated,  broke  the  silence  of  the  room.  "  She 
came  from  that  land  of  beautiful  women  and  heart- 
breaking music,  and  she  called  the  piece  '  The  Way 
of  the  Cross.'  Play  for  me,  Mademoiselle,  as  I 
have  played  for  you,"  she  held  out  the  instrument 
to  Blair  Martin,  "  not  something  that  you  know, 
but,  like  my  mother,  something  that  you  dream, 
and  may  the  dream  be  fairer  than  her  own." 

As  one  asleep  Blair  Martin  took  the  instrument 
and  bow  and  began  to  tune  the  violin. 

Her  brain  was  a  blank.  How  play  after  what 
she  had  heard  —  how  play  her  dream  ?  Yet  a  voice 
of  which  she  was  inwardly  conscious  —  a  voice 
that  she  had  not  heard  since  she  had  parted  on  the 
pier,  said  "Play!" 

She  drew  her  bow  across  the  taut  strings,  un- 
knowing that  the  instrument  of  her  soul  had  been 
tuned  to  even  a  more  perfect  pitch  by  the  magic 
of  the  music  she  had  heard.  Hardly  conscious  of 

357 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

what  she  did,  impelled  by  that  inner  voice  of 
strong  command,  she  laid  the  violin  beneath  her 
chin  and  drew  her  bow  with  a  long  sweep. 

It  was  as  though  a  human  voice  had  cried  out, 
touched  with  the  shadow  of  divinity.  It  echoed 
through  the  silence  of  the  room  and  beat  against 
the  brain  of  the  Comtesse  persistently  as  waves 
beat  against  a  shore.  From  a  corner  where  the 
Flemish  tapestries  cast  long,  strange  lines  of  shade, 
she  sat  and  watched  her,  leaning  forward  on  her 
elbow,  from  her  low  chair.  Before  the  window  — 
her  figure  a  silhouette  in  its  light  —  Blair  Martin 
stood  and  played,  alike  unconscious  of  audience  or 
surroundings.  She  had  laid  the  bow  against  the 
strings,  not  knowing  what  she  was  to  play  —  how 
play  at  all  —  and  now  she  was  improvising  some- 
thing new  and  strange.  She  composed  as  she 
played,  not  thinking,  not  planning,  or  even  trying 
to  guess  bar  that  should  follow  bar.  She  stood 
facing  the  far  dim  corners  of  the  room  that,  as  she 
looked,  faded  from  her  sight,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
once  more  she  was  at  the  Anchorage  —  at  home. 
It  was  night  —  could  the  darkness  of  the  dim  far 
corners  deceive  one  so  —  and  she  was  standing 
under  a  mimosa  tree  in  bloom,  the  moon-flowers 
near.  It  was  youth  and  summer  time.  Low  notes, 
infinitely  low  and  infinitely  tender  —  full  of  hope 
—  crept  from  the  heart  of  the  violin.  .  .  .  Beside 
her  was  some  one  —  could  the  darkness  in  the  dim 
far  corners  in  truth  take  on  a  human  shape.  .  .  . 
Who  said  the  night  was  still?  Ah,  it  was  throb- 

358 


THE   SANCTUARY 


bing  —  throbbing.  .  .  .  Had  she  not  looked  into 
his  eyes?  .  .  .  Deep  as  the  clouds  at  sunset  that 
rest  above  the  sea  and  Naples  in  the  fall,  full  of 
a  glory,  veiled,  crept  forth  a  wonderful  note  from 
the  frail  thing  of  wood,  that  note  of  love,  and 
vibrated  to  it  as  two  chords  mingle  and  become 
one  —  as  two  lives  mingle  and  lose  their  separate- 
ness.  Again  and  again  she  called  forth  from 
the  frail  thing  of  wood,  that  note  of  love,  and 
it  underlay  all  the  piece  she  played  and  became  the 
keynote  on  which  she  built  the  whole.  .  .  .  The 
shadows  lengthened  in  the  far  corners  as  she  gazed, 
and  there  crept  into  the  music  slow  notes  of  wait- 
ing —  somber  notes  of  hope  deferred  —  despair. 
The  shadows  took  on  new  shape  —  across  the  dark- 
ness stretched  a  Bridge  for  her.  She  saw  it  as 
she  had  seen  it  that  day  on  the  pier  ;  as  it  had  come 
to  her  in  weary  months  of  travel;  as  it  stretched 
its  mighty  length  from  alp  to  alp;  as  in  wonder 
she  had  looked  at  it  from  the  portal  of  St.  Michael's 
standing  forth  from  the  woods  and  sea;  again 
as  in  the  moonlight  in  the  chateau  garden:  and 
the  Bridge  was  always  the  same  yet  always  differ- 
ent, as  though  built  from  different  fabrics  of  her 
mind.  She  realized  now  it  had  never  come  to  her 
until  all  human  helps  had  failed  —  that  in  truth 
it  had  been  to  her  the  dry  land  that  brought  her 
safely  through  the  rushing  torrents  of  a  Red  Sea 
that  had  threatened  to  swamp  her  life.  .  .  .  The 
violin  sang  of  the  Bridge  —  of  its  mystery  and  its 
power,  of  the  doubt  that  it  had  spanned,  of  the 

359 


THE   SANCTUARY 


peace  it  had  led  to  —  of  a  faith  that  was  in  sight. 
.  .  .  Now  the  music  left  the  low  lands  and  the 
darkened  valleys  and  as  a  lark  soars  upward  and 
beats  its  impotent  wings  against  the  fading  stars, 
it  rose  a  triumphant  paean,  as  though  wholly  con- 
scious alike  of  its  limitations  and  its  attainments; 
its  human  frailty  and  its  immortal  birthright;  of 
its  unity  with  the  One  Reality  of  all. 

Above  the  strings  she  held  the  bow  silent  in  the 
air. 

The  Comtesse  remained  motionless,  leaning  for- 
ward, her  elbow  on  her  knee,  her  face  resting  in 
the  hollow  of  her  hand.  For  a  moment  Blair 
Martin  stood  looking  straight  ahead  of  her.  The 
long,  dim  shadows  in  the  room  were  only  shad- 
ows after  all,  and  she  had  awakened  from  a  dream. 
Her  hands  still  holding  the  violin  and  the  bow 
dropped  nerveless  to  her  side.  The  Comtesse 
stirred  a  little. 

"But  the  end,"  the  Comtesse  said,  "the  end?" 

Blair  Martin  laid  the  violin  and  the  bow  in  its 
case  and  closed  the  lid.  Her  hands  began  to  trem- 
ble. 

"  I  do  not  know  the  end,"  she  said. 


360 


XI. 

IT  was  the  next  week  that  the  great  specialist 
from  Marseilles  arrived.  It  was  not  his  first 
visit  to  the  Island.  Years  ago,  when  he  had 
been  a  struggling  young  doctor  righting  his  way 
upward  from  the  obscurity  of  humble  birth,  La- 
more,  a  young  captain  in  the  prize  regiment,  had 
met  him  and  had  realized  his  worth.  It  had  been 
Lamore  and  the  position  that  Lamore  had  held  by 
right  of  title  and  of  wealth  that  he  had  afterwards 
renounced,  who  had  been  the  first  to  help  him  — 
whose  influence  in  the  society  in  which  he  moved 
had  been  a  potent  factor  in  Duport's  success.  He 
had  never  forgotten  Lamore  or  the  debt  he  owed 
him,  and  when  Lamore  had  taken  orders  and  left 
behind  all  and  more  than  he  could  gain,  he  had 
cried  as  a  strong  man  cries  beside  the  grave  of 
some  cherished  hope.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that 
in  truth  he  was  burying  his  friend,  whose  talents 
had  charmed  the  big  cities  of  Europe,  whose  influ- 
ence, political,  military  and  social,  whose  executive 
ability  had  excited  comment,  even  envy,  in  the 
world  of  men.  He  had  come  to  know,  however, 
to  see,  even  while  sometimes  he  failed  to  under- 
stand, that  the  talents  had  not  been  wasted;  that 
in  a  mysterious  way  that  few  could  comprehend, 
the  promise  of  Lamore's  youth  had  been  fulfilled. 

361 


THE   SANCTUARY 


He  had  been  used  to  come  to  the  Island  almost 
every  year  to  renew  the  long  friendship,  to  pick 
up  again  the  strands  from  the  hand  of  Time;  and 
long  ago  he  acknowledged  that  he  not  only  came 
here  to  rest  from  the  fret  and  turmoil  of  the  city; 
not  only  to  enjoy  the  gifts  of  Lamore's  mentality, 
but  to  learn  from  him  as  well.  Lamore's  present 
request  had  therefore  come  to  him  more  in  the  light 
of  a  command  than  a  favor  requested.  He  was  at 
the  zenith  of  his  life-work  and  the  days  were  full 
of  a  labor  that  represented  the  toil  and  the  study 
and  the  fight  of  years.  Already  he  had  made  his 
brief  trip  of  pleasure  to  the  Island  for  the  year. 
He  could  ill  be  spared,  yet  it  never  occurred  to  him 
to  refuse.  He  would  have  come  at  a  line  from 
Lamore  as  readily  to  serve  the  poorest  peasant  on 
the  Island  as  the  chatelaine  thereof.  He  had  not 
seen  her  since  she  was  a  young  convent  girl  of  six- 
teen, living  in  the  summer  time  in  lonely  state, 
chaperoned  by  her  old  governess,  in  the  great  cha- 
teau on  the  hill. 

He  knew  most  of  the  story  well,  for  he  was 
eminent  in  other  branches  of  his  profession  besides 
his  specialty,  but  it  was  a  subject,  as  intimate  as 
the  two  men  were,  which  they  never  discussed  to- 
gether. In  the  breast  of  the  great  doctor  risen 
from  obscurity  to  eminence  and  decorated  with  the 
medals  of  Europe,  as  in  the  breast  of  the  humble 
priest  fallen  from  worldly  rank  and  station  to  ob- 
scurity, were  deep  wells  that  hid  many  secrets  of 
our  frail  humanity. 

362 


THE    SANCTUARY 


It  was  Lamore  that  met  him  with  the  great  tour- 
ing car  of  the  chateau,  and  Bernard  Duport  smiled 
as  he  entered  the  tonneau,  where  the  priest  fol- 
lowed him,  remembering  Nanette  and  the  chaise. 
He  inquired  of  them  as  they  started  from  the  wharf. 

"  You  are  to  be  the  guest  of  the  Comtesse,"  said 
Lamore  with  a  laugh.  "  For  her,  who  lives  upon 
the  heights  —  this,"  he  motioned  to  the  car  ;  "  for 
me,  in  the  valley  —  Nanette  and  the  chaise." 

Duport  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  So  !  I  am  to  be  a  guest  at  the  chateau.  Now 
tell  me  briefly  of  the  fears  that  made  you  summon 
me." 

Duport  remained  at  the  chateau  a  week  and 
seemingly  did  little  but  enjoy  the  life  there.  If 
he  were  impatient  to  be  gone;  if  he  ever  recalled 
the  work  accumulating  for  him  at  home,  he  gave 
no  sign.  Years  ago  he  had  learned  by  some  keen 
instinct  so  often  developed  in  the  physician  as  in 
the  priest,  that  some  strange  tie,  born  of  the  past, 
bound  Lamore's  love  as  it  did  his  loyalty  to  the 
chateau.  What  matter  it  then,  the  work  piling 
up  for  him;  the  delayed  convention  papers  only 
half  finished,  the  hospital  clinics  unattended? 
Let  the  clinics  and  the  convention  papers  wait; 
let  the  work  pile  up  and  up  until  it  was  a  huge 
mass  that  only  a  giant  will  and  a  giant  intellect 
could  fight  through  at  last.  Lamore  had  sent  for 
him  —  Lamore  leaned  on  him  and  needed  him  as 
in  the  early  days  he  had  leaned  on  and  needed  the 

363 


THE   SANCTUARY 


young  captain  in  the  regiment  If  it  was  the  first 
time  that  the  favor  was  his,  it  should  not  be  the 
last,  provided  Lamore  said  the  word.  So  he  rode 
in  the  great  car  with  the  Comtesse  the  full  length 
of  the  Island's  twenty  miles  and  back  ;  and  walked 
the  terrace  in  the  evening  with  the  tall  American 
with  the  liquid  voice,  and  watched  the  women  with 
the  child  Anthony,  while  he  lounged  in  the  garden 
smoking  his  cigar.  In  the  evening  the  great  car 
shot  down  the  heights  and  stopped  before  Lamore's 
door  and  brought  him  back  to  dinner  to  cross 
swords  of  wit  with  the  chatelaine,  who  was  always 
charming  —  always  gracious.  Later  perhaps  La- 
more  and  himself  would  play  chess.  Lamore,  who 
for  years  had  made  the  faces  of  men  a  study  that 
he  had  reduced  almost  to  a  science,  now  searched 
a  human  face  in  vain.  He  had  summoned  his 
friend  here  because  of  his  skill  in  ferreting  out 
obscure  cases  of  disease  that  eluded  others,  and 
he  had  fancied  that  on  the  evening  of  the  first  day 
he  would  there  read  some  clue,  but  Bernard  Du- 
port's  face  was  inscrutable.  So  the  days  passed 
until  the  week  was  ended,  and  the  Comtesse  gave, 
with  sincere  regret,  the  orders  for  the  tasks  at- 
tending the  departure  of  her  guest.  He  had 
stepped  into  the  life  of  the  chateau,  into  the  brood- 
ing peace  resting  there,  as  naturally  as  though  he 
had  known  the  chateau  and  its  inmates  all  his  life. 
Greatness  had  set  her  seal  and  sign  on  him  and 
he  was  completely  hers  —  too  great  to  regard  his 
talents  as  a  personal  thing  of  pride,  holding  them 

364 


THE   SANCTUARY 


for  the  service  of  the  world;  too  great  to  demean 
himself  and  hide,  from  the  titled  men  and  women 
that  he  moved  among,  with  shame  or  denial  or  de- 
ceit, his  peasant  origin.  He  never  alluded  to  it 
deprecatingly ;  never  boasted  of  it,  that  one  might 
judge  the  greatness  of  the  height  to  which  he  had 
climbed  by  the  abyss  from  which  he  had  come, 
but  partly  from  instinct,  partly  from  the  lessons 
he  had  learned  from  Pierre  Lamore,  he  had  built 
the  structure  of  his  life  on  it,  as  a  man  builds  upon 
a  rock.  The  whole  world  knew  him  —  or  might 
have  known  him  by  a  word  of  inquiry  —  for  what 
he  was,  for  what  he  had  become;  the  Comtesse 
herself  knew  it  even  as  she  placed  at  his  disposal 
the  suite  that  once  had  been  occupied  centuries  ago 
by  the  great  Louis  and  kept  only  for  distinguished 
strangers,  yet  she  marveled  at  the  stories  she  had 
heard  of  his  hungry,  barefooted  boyhood  in  the 
Pyrenees,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  not  the  great 
Louis  himself  could  have  bidden  her  farewell  at 
the  entrance  to  the  chateau  with  a  pride,  a  bearing 
and  a  grace  that  excelled  his  own. 

She  stood  by  Blair  Martin's  side  watching  La- 
more  and  her  departing  guest  drive  to  the  wharf 
in  the  great  car.  If  she  had  had  any  thoughts  of 
fear  as  to  her  condition,  he  had  allayed  them  all, 
even  when  that  morning,  because  of  a  request  of 
Lamore,  whom  she  never  could  refuse,  she  had 
asked  him  for  an  examination  of  her  lungs.  He 
had  gone  through  the  task  as  quietly  as  though  it 
had  not  been  the  thing  he  had  been  waiting  for  ever 


3%  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

since  he  came,  and  his  face  and  manner  had  reas- 
sured her  from  the  first.  Now  she  turned  to  the 
American  with  a  sigh  of  loss  before  she  went  in- 
doors. 

Lamore  and  Bernard  Duport  were  silent  until 
they  reached  the  wharf,  where  the  former  dis- 
missed the  car.  Together  the  priest  and  the  physi- 
cian sat  down  upon  the  luggage  to  wait.  Fauchet 
was  late  and  it  was  too  perfect  an  evening  to  wait 
inside  the  little  station  the  Comtesse  had  had  built 
there  since  her  return.  Duport  took  a  cigar-case 
out  of  his  pocket,  offered  it  to  Lamore,  raised  Ms 
eyebrows  slightly  as  the  other  shook  his  head,  then 
took  one  and  lighted  it  in  silence.  Lamore  studied 
him  with  grave  eyes  so  long,  that  finally  the  physi- 
cian turned  to  him  with  a  smile. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  questioned. 

"  Well  ? "  said  Lamore,  and  his  eyes  were  not 
to  be  denied. 

"  It  is  as  you  feared,"  said  Duport  slowly,  "  it 
has  been  creeping  on  her  for  months.  I  knew  it 
before  the  examination  this  morning." 

"  You  have  known  it  all  along?  " 

"  Certainly  —  since  my  first  evening  in  that 
most  delightful  place  of  entertainment,  the  cha- 
teau." He  glanced  up  as  he  spoke  to  the  great  pile 
of  stone  upon  the  chateau  heights. 

"  How  —  you  scarcely  seemed  to  look  at  her  ? 
Once  I  fancied  you  had  mistaken  me,  the  way  you 
studied  the  American." 

"  The  American  —  she  interests  me,"  said  Du- 

366 


THE   SANCTUARY 


port  irrelevantly.  "  As  for  the  other,  my  dear 
Pierre,  to  eyes  long  trained  as  mine  have  been,  the 
ear  —  the  stethoscope  —  is  of  secondary  impor- 
tance. " 

"  Yet  I  spoke  to  Keller,  the  chateau  physician, 
about  it  less  than  three  months  ago.  He  used  the 
stethoscope.  He  could  find  little  wrong  except  a 
general  debility." 

Duport  laughed  a  little. 

"  Voila  !     Keller  is  a  German  !  " 

Lamore  smiled.  It  was  evident  that  beneath  the 
jest  there  was  more.  He  waited.  Duport  studied 
his  cigar  carefully. 

"  The  gift  of  a  rich  but  undiscriminating  patient 

—  although    a    colleague    and    one    of    my    best 
friends."     He  puffed  on  it  slowly,  critically;  finally 
rose  and  flung  it  far  into  the  waters  and  began  to 
pace  up  and  down  in  front  of  Lamore,  who  knew 
that  truth  was  coming. 

"  My  dear  Pierre,  it  is  no  reflection  on  Keller 
that  he  found  nothing  more  serious  in  his  diag- 
nosis nearly  three  months  ago.  He  was  one  of 
my  pet  pupils  at  the  Academy,  and  it  was  for  that 
I  recommended  his  name  to  you  when  you  wrote 
to  me  after  the  old  doctor  died.  I  do  not  say  that 
the  salary  offered  —  a  fortune  for  so  poor  a  man 

—  did  not  attract  him,  but  I  predict  great  things 
for  Keller,  and  there  will  come  a  day  when  double 
the    chateau   gold   will    not  tie  him   here.      Then 
he  shall  come  back  to  Marseilles  to  me  and  learn 
secrets  not  taught  in  Materia  Medica  or  even  from 

367 


THE   SANCTUARY 


the  lecture  platform.  For  such  as  will  read  the 
signs  of  the  time,  to  them  will  be  given  the  knowl- 
edge that  they  seek.  Some  of  it  will  require  years 
of  effort,  of  concentration  —  some  of  it  is  taught 
in  simple  guise.  Some  day  the  true  physician  will 
be  the  true  philosopher  and  the  psychologist  as  well. 
He  will  diagnose  by  watching  the  simplest  things 
of  life  —  the  walk  of  a  patient,  the  color  of  the 
hands  perhaps,  and  where  all  material  senses  fail 
he  will  read  with  a  developed  instinct  as  well 
trained  as  is  to-day  his  eyes,  his  ears,  his  hands." 

He  paused  before  Lamore,  who  still  sat  on  the 
luggage,  immovable,  looking  out  to  sea.  In  the 
distance  —  a  quarter  of  an  hour  away  perhaps  — 
he  could  just  discern  Fauchet's  new  boat  rounding 
the  point  that  partly  hid  Grenette. 

"  As  to  the  little  Comtesse  —  there  is  really 
nothing  that  one  can  grasp  at  as  yet,"  the  doctor 
went  on.  "  We  cannot  say  the  seed  has  been 
planted  while  it  yet  rests  on  the  bosom  of  the  wind 
—  but  the  wind  is  the  tendency  —  the  wind  is  near. 
The  gravest  symptom  that  I  noted  —  that  I  most 
often  wage  my  fiercest  war  against  —  is  her  utter 
indifference  to  her  life,  though  well  concealed  — 
bien  —  well  concealed  !  " 

He  paused.  Lamore  rose  and  joined  him  and 
together  they  walked  the  little  wharf,  keeping  step. 

"  I  did  not  study  the  tall  American  with  the 
beautiful  voice  entirely  from  curiosity  or  —  ad- 
miration, although  she  excites  both.  It  may  be 
that  through  her  Madame  the  Comtesse  will  be  re- 

368 


THE   SANCTUARY 


stored.  She  is  steadfast.  She  has  the  quality  of 
uncompromising  truth  stronger  than  any  woman 
I  have  ever  seen  except  my  wife.  There  rests  in 
her  the  promise  of  a  love  and  of  a  soul-fulfilment 
more  marvelous  than  the  physical  growth  from  the 
embryo  to  the  man.  Let  the  Comtesse  lean  on  her 
—  confide  in  her  if  she  will  —  "  the  doctor  looked 
keenly  at  his  friend.  "  All  women,"  he  said, 
"  sometimes  need  a  friend  ;  the  peasant  woman 
with  her  new-born  at  her  breast,  as  the  great  lady 
on  the  heights  in  the  splendor  of  her  heart-break 
and  her  memories." 

Fauchet's  tug  came  still  nearer  —  a  dark  spot 
upon  the  shining  waters.  Both  men  watched  it. 
On  the  light  breeze  was  borne  to  them  the  faint 
throb  of  its  engine. 

"  But  above  the  friendship  and  confidences  there 
is  something  that  Madame  the  Comtesse  needs 
more  than  all  else  —  happiness  !  A  great  shock  of 
happiness,  perhaps  —  who  knows  —  who  knows  ! 
Ah,  mon  ami,  I  have  known  it  to  do  marvelous 
things." 

Lamore  did  not  answer,  but  he  set  his  lips 
tightly  and  quickened  his  walk  a  little.  The  tug 
came  nearer. 

They  did  not  speak  until  it  had  tied  up  and  the 
gangway  had  been  thrown  out  and  two  of  the  men 
from  the  chateau  had  gotten  the  luggage  aboard. 
Then  the  physician  and  the  priest  shook  hands. 

"  Rely  on  Keller  —  if  he  is  a  German,"  said 
Bernard  Duport  with  a  parting  smile.  "  Trust  him 

369 


THE   SANCTUARY 


—  he  has  directions  from  me.  Whenever  I  am 
needed  I  will  come  again." 

Lamore  stood,  an  immovable  figure  watching  the 
tug  until  it  was  out  of  sight. 

That  night  he  sent  for  Hector  Stone. 


370 


XII. 

THE  next  afternoon  but  one  was  Saturday  — 
an  afternoon  on  which  the  boy  Anthony 
came  late.  Each  week's  end  he  helped  his 
mother  sweep  up  the  floor  and  wipe  the  wooden 
benches  of  the  village  chapel,  built  long  ago  by  the 
Comtesse  Clarisse,  and  where  Pierre  Lamore  had 
preached  and  had  administered  the  Blessed  Sacra- 
ment for  so  many  years.  The  boy  sighed  as  he 
worked.  He  was  not  afraid  of  toil  —  it  had  been 
his  portion  almost  since  his  birth  —  but  the  after- 
noon was  hot  —  he  wondered  why  all  the  Satur- 
day afternoons  seemed  hot  now  —  and  he  kept 
thinking  of  the  grateful  shadow  of  the  trees  in  the 
chateau  garden.  Of  course  the  work  must  be  done 
first  —  especially  the  work  that  concerned  in  any 
way  the  good  Father  whom  he  loved  —  but  the 
chateau  garden.  .  .  . 

Up  in  the  chateau  garden  Blair  Martin  sat  alone. 
The  Comtesse  was  resting,  and  Blair  Martin  re- 
membered with  a  smile  that  on  Saturday  after- 
noons the  Comtesse  always  rested  now.  It  helped 
to  pass  the  time  until  Anthony  should  come.  From 
the  chateau  heights  she  looked  down  at  the  valleys 
and  the  fast  ripening  vineyards.  The  houses  and 
the  little  village  church,  tipped  with  its  wooden 

371 


m  TH'E   SANCTUARY  m 

Roman  cross,  looked  infinitely  small  and  far  away. 
The  peasants,  too,  toiling  in  .the  sun,  were  specks 
upon  the  landscape.  How  hot  the  sun  must  be 
upon  their  arms  and  backs!  How  slowly,  al- 
most wearily,  walked  the  traveler  over  the  road 
that  wound  upward  to  the  chateau  park.  She 
watched  him  curiously.  A  stranger,  perhaps  (as 
she  had  been  weeks  ago)  on  a  trip  of  curiosity 
from  Marseilles  or  Grenette,  or  a  messenger  maybe 
for  the  Comtesse.  She  remembered  how  primitive 
in  many  ways  the  Island  still  was.  Lamore  had 
told  her,  almost  with  a  shade  of  regret  in  his  voice, 
that  the  present  Comtesse  had  really  been  the  first 
to  bring  modern  civilization  to  the  Island.  The 
telephones  between  the  rectory  and  the  chateau, 
between  the  chateau  and  Keller's  residence,  and  an 
intricate  fabric  of  wiring  from  the  chateau  to  the 
numerous  houses  of  those  in  the  Comtesse's  em- 
ploy, were  soon  to  be  installed.  The  Comtesse  had 
even  considered  the  matter  of  a  wireless  station 
for  the  Island. 

She  continued  to  watch  intently  the  figure  of  the 
man  walking  up  the  winding  road,  and  frowned  a 
little.  The  distance  was  so  great  and  yet  — 

Presently  the  turn  into  the  wooded  road  hid  the 
traveler  from  her  sight  and  she  turned  away  with 
a  sigh  of  relief.  She  would  sit  and  rest  a  little 
while  on  the  terrace  under  the  big  tree. 

She  did  not  see  him  enter  at  the  wicket  gate  and 
stand  there  looking  around  as  one  in  profound 
thought,  or  hear  his  footfall  as  he  came  nearer 

372 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

over  the  grass.  By  the  sun-dial  he  hesitated  and 
stood  there,  leaning  against  it,  and  he  looked  at  her. 
Something  in  the  consciousness  that  she  was 
watched  made  her  turn  her  eyes  from  the  pages 
of  her  book  and  meet  his  own.  The  book  slipped 
to  the  ground  and  she  slowly  rose  —  colorless. 

He  neither  moved  nor  spoke,  only  looked  at  her, 
and  the  look  drew  her  as  the  magnet  draws  the 
steel.  He  watched  her  coming;  noted  the  color 
of  her  dress,  her  hair  blowing  soft  tendrils  in  the 
wind,  the  clasping  and  the  unclasping  of  her  hands, 
the  pallor  of  her  face.  When  she  was  quite  close 
to  him;  when  the  breadth  of  the  sun-dial  alone 
separated  them  she  spoke. 

"You?"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  and  he  wondered  at  the 
whiteness  and  the  beauty  of  the  pearls  she  wore. 

"  Why  are  you  here  ?  "  she  said  at  last  with  an 
effort. 

"  Lamore  sent  for  me." 

She  looked  into  his  face. 

"  Why?  "  she  asked  again. 

Then  it  was  he  knew  that  he  must  tell  her. 

"  Come,"  he  said.  "  There  is  much  I  want  to 
say,  and  I  cannot  here.  Let  us  go  through  the 
woods  up  to  St.  Michael's  Rock.  There  I  will  tell 
you." 

She  followed  him.  It  never  occurred  to  her  to 
question  what  he  asked. 

High  up  on  St.  Michael's  Rock  he  spread  wide 
his  handkerchief  that  she  might  not  soil  her  dress. 

373 


THE   SANCTUARY 


She  smiled  faintly  at  the  consideration  that  remem- 
bered trivial  courtesies  when  Time  stood  by  with 
tablet  and  stylus  to  mark  an  epoch  in  their  lives. 

After  she  was  seated  he  sat  down  beside  her  and 
began  to  play  with  some  pebbles  lying  near.  She 
watched  him  in  silence,  in  a  silence  that  she  could 
not  have  broken  if  she  would.  How  strange  his 
face  looked.  .  .  . 

He  glanced  up  to  her  wide,  questioning  eyes, 
but  his  own  fell  before  them  and  he  looked  toward 
the  memorial  chapel  near. 

"Beautiful,"  he  said,  "pure  Gothic  —  beauti- 
ful!" 

She  heard  him,  but  she  waited. 

"  It  was  not  here  when  I  was  at  the  Island  first," 
he  said.  "  Then  St.  Michael's  Rock  was  un- 
crowned." Suddenly  he  shook  off  the  mood  that 
had  fallen  on  him  and  turned  to  her  with  his  old 
resolution  in  manner  and  in  voice. 

"  Blair,"  he  said,  and  she  began  to  tremble  as 
he  spoke  her  name.  "  Chance  —  perhaps  I  should 
say  Fate,  who  brings  to  us  all  our  unpaid  debts  for 
settlement  —  brought  you  into  my  life,  too  late  for 
the  happiness  that  some  men  know.  That,  it  seems 
to  me,  I  could  have  borne  more  easily  than  some  to 
whom  such  happiness  has  been  denied,  because  of 
the  views  I  hold,  but  it  touched  your  life  —  that 
meeting,  too,  and  it  touched  another  life  of  whom 
I  have  told  you  little." 

He  broke  off  and  he  shook  the  pebbles  in  his 
hand  and  looked  down  at  them  for  an  instant. 

374 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

"  You  never  questioned  me  of  her  —  some  na- 
tures are  too  big  for  finite  failings  like  that  —  yet 
have  there  not  been  times  in  which  to  your  inner 
consciousness  you  pictured  her?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Blair  Martin  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Have  you  —  have  you  ever  pictured  her  as  a 
great  lady  —  the  owner  of  great  estates  —  the  pos- 
sessor of  vast  wealth  —  " 

Blair  Martin  put  one  hand  suddenly  to  her  fore- 
head, as  though  it  pained  her,  and  pressed  it  there, 
but  she  did  not  answer  him. 

"  Or  slender,  perhaps,  and  fair  to  look  at  —  gra- 
cious in  her  ways  as  the  great  ladies  are  in  books  ?  " 

Blair  Martin  rose  suddenly  to  her  feet.  A  wave 
of  color  swept  over  her  face  and  receded.  Her 
eyes,  intense,  commanding,  looked  at  him. 

"  A  great  lady  —  like  the  Comtesse  Cecile  de 
Grandcceur?"  she  asked  quite  steadily. 

Stone  stood  facing  her.  Slowly  the  pebbles 
slipped  through  his  fingers  and  fell  noisily  to  the 
ground. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

The  American  turned  away,  her  eyes  to  the 
ground.  Up  there  on  St.  Michael's  Rock  the  wind 
blew  steadily  against  her  face  as  a  refreshing 
draught.  It  helped  to  clear  her  senses  and  helped 
her  to  breathe.  By  and  by  she  stirred  and  it  seemed 
as  though  she  groped  to  move  away. 

"  My  God,"  she  whispered,  "  my  God! " 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  her  on  the  arm. 

"  Let  me  help  you  from  the  Rock,"  he  said. 

375 


THE   SANCTUARY 


She  allowed  him  to  do  so,  in  silence,  hardly  con- 
scious of  his  hold  of  her  that  at  any  other  time 
she  would  have  acutely  realized.  Except  for  the 
pressure  of  her  hand  in  his,  it  was  the  closest  per- 
sonal contact  they  had  known. 

He  did  not  speak,  as  though  appreciating  her 
need  of  silence,  but  from  time  to  time  he  glanced 
at  her  face  as  though  to  read  therein  her  thoughts. 

Her  thoughts!  At  first  they  chased  themselves 
across  her  brain,  confused  and  incoherent,  without 
beginning  and  leading  to  no  end.  Then  the  motion 
of  walking  and  the  strong  pressure  on  her  arm  •  — 
unwavering  and  gentle  as  it  was  strong  —  brought 
inward  composure  and  control. 

How  blind  she  had  been!  His  wife!  His  wife, 
that  long  ago,  in  the  winter  in  the  Alps,  she  had 
known  she  would  some  day  meet;  that  their  lives 
would  cross  as  the  warp  is  woven  in  the  woof. 
The  shadowy  third  —  Cecile  !  She  recalled  Cecile 
as  the  months  had  revealed  her  —  her  graciousness, 
her  talents  and  her  charm,  and  she  wondered  how 
it  was,  as  though  she  were  judging  the  matter  as 
an  outsider,  just  why  that  charm,  those  talents  and 
the  graciousness  had  failed  to  hold  him  —  or  hav- 
ing failed,  had  not  the  power  to  win  him  back. 
There  had  been  those  seven  years  in  Montreal  — 
that  exile  from  him  —  from  all  that  life  held  sacred 
and  most  dear!  Seven  years  in  darkness  that  hid 
the  remembrances  of  the  Island  of  the  Angels-  —  • 
the  recollection  of  him!  A  pity  in  which  there 
was  for  the  moment  nothing  personal,  stirred  in 

376 


*B  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

her.  What  a  fate  for  what  a  life!  .  .  .  She  noted 
now  that  they  were  almost  at  the  foot  of  St.  Mi- 
chael's Rock,  and  she  wondered  whither  he  would 
lead  her.  Once  she  slipped  a  little  and  the  pressure 
and  support  upon  her  arm  increased.  .  .  .  Then 
came  hurried  torturing  memories  that  burned.  .  .  . 
She  remembered  how  she  had  come  here.  Had 
Lamore  known  —  had  Cecile  known  —  had  Cecile 
known?  Was  it  because  of  this  that  she  had  asked 
her  here?  In  those  first  days  there  had  been  that 
strange  reticence  on  the  Comtesse's  part  —  that 
vague  distrust  on  hers !  .  .  .  Stone  —  had  he 
known  ?  Had  they  all  known  —  but  her  ?  Had 
she  walked  blindly  into  a  trap? 

She  drew  a  gasping  breath  as  does  a  man  who 
has  been  long  under  water.  All  helplessness,  all 
indecision  fell  from  her  with  that  breath  and .  she 
became  acutely  conscious  of  the  touch  that  led  her 
through  the  shadowed  woods  back  to  the  chateau. 
Very  quietly  her  hand  removed  his  own. 

"  I  am  quite  myself  again,"  she  said,  and  she 
wondered  at  her  own  voice  —  so  low,  so  even,  was 
it  in  spite  of  her  despair.  "  Thank  you  for  your 
help  —  thank  you  for  what  you  have  told  me.  I 
was  blind  not  to  have  guessed  before." 

"  If  I  could  have  spared  you,"  he  said,  "  if  I 
only  could  have  spared  you  this !  " 

"  It  would  have  been  better  if  I  had  been  spared 
earlier,"  said  Blair  Martin,  staring  into  the  leafy 
shadows  of  the  woods  ahead,  "  better  for  —  us  all." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Stone,  "  I  do  not  know." 

377 


THE   SANCTUARY 


She  stopped  in  her  walk. 

"  It  had  been  kinder  never  to  have  sent  me  to  the 
Island  of  the  Angels,  or  having  come,  spared  me 
from  the  misery  of  this  —  my  visit  to  the  cha- 
teau!" 

"  Have  you  not  been  happy  at  the  chateau  ?  "  he 
asked  in  a  low  voice,  studying  the  ground. 

She  laughed  a  little  —  mirthlessly. 

"  As  an  Arab  who  treads  the  hot  desert,  who 
struggles  towards  an  oasis  only  to  find  it  mirage  !  " 

He  raised  his  head  with  a  passionate  gesture  of 
denial. 

"  Blair,"  he  said,  "  look  at  me." 

She  looked  because  she  could  not  help  it  — 
because  he  had  bidden  her,  and  she  read  truth  in 
his  eyes. 

"  Do  you  fancy  that  I  sent  you  here  for  this  — 
that  I  dreamed  you  two  would  come  together: 
sleep  under  one  roof  ;  eat  of  the  same  food  ?  When 
you  came  to  the  Island,  she  —  my  wife  —  Cecile 
—  was  with  me  in  America.  One  night  she  came 
across  the  little  silk  bag  I  had  bought  from  you  at 
the  fair  on  our  first  meeting  —  you  remember  the 
little  bag?"  He  paused  for  a  moment  as  though 
waiting  for  an  answer.  She  nodded.  "  She  found 
the  bag  —  and  a  long  white  glove  of  yours  —  it 
was  full  of  the  odor  of  the  perfume  that  you  always 
use,  of  violets,  the  perfume  that  I  can  smell  now 
as  I  am  standing  here.  She  asked  me  nothing. 
She  simply  laid  them  on  my  shaving-stand  that  I 
might  know  she  had  found  them,  and  give  an 

378 


THE   SANCTUARY 


explanation  if  I  wished.  I  told  her  the  next  day. 
I  withheld  nothing  but  your  name,  for  which  she 
never  asked.  I  told  her  what,  until  to-day,  I  have 
never  said  to  you  —  at  least-  with  my  lips  —  that 
I  loved  you." 

He  broke  off  suddenly  and  suddenly  turned  away 
and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  along  the  wooded 
path.  His  mouth  was  working  a  little.  Then  he 
came  back  to  her,  where  she  had  remained  immov- 
able, standing  at  the  foot  of  a  great  tree.  She 
leaned  against  it  for  support. 

"  After  that  we  remained  together  until  I  went 
on  a  western  tour.  It  was  while  I  was  gone  that 
she  returned  to  the  Island  of  the  Angels.  To  the 
world  we  gave  the  reason  of  her  health  and  Lori- 
mer's  orders  to  a  warmer  climate.  To  Lamore 
here  I  wrote  the  whole  truth.  He  received  the 
letter  after  you  had  come  to  visit  at  the  chateau. 
I  think  that  is  all,"  he  added.  His  voice  was 
weary. 

"  The  Comtesse  —  Cecile  —  did  she  know  when 
I  was  asked  ?  "  Blair  Martin's  voice  broke  the 
silence  of  the  woods. 

Stone  met  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said.    "  Do  you?  " 

"  I  am  not  certain  yet  —  " 

She  did  not  finish,  but  he  understood. 

"  I  had  thought  to  let  Lamore  tell  you  when  the 
time  came.  Never  in  all  my  hours  of  pondering 
and  of  dreaming  had  I  thought  to  be  the  one  to 
come  and  tell  you  this.  To-day  on  landing  I  went 

379 


*ft  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

direct  to  Lamore's  house.  They  told  me  there  he 
was  on  a  sick  call  at  a  distant  part  of  the  Island 
and  later  expected  to  come  here.  I  came  to  the 
chateau  in  the  hope  of  seeing  him  and  —  met  you 
instead.  I  took  the  chance  and  —  failed." 

She  looked  at  him  with  wistful  eyes  in  which 
there  dwelt  more  than  she  was  aware. 

"  I  am  glad  that  it  is  so,"  she  said  simply. 

"  His  cable  —  in  cipher  —  was  re-sent  from 
America  and  reached  me  in  Marseilles  early  this 
morning.  I  had  just  time  to  make  connections 
here." 

"The  cable, —  I  do  not  understand." 

"  Lamore  wired  me  night  before  last  the  result 
of  Duport's  visit  here.  He  seemed  to  think  that 
I  could  help  —  Cecile.  In  what  way  I  do  not  know. 
I  was  not  in  America  —  I  left  there  a  fortnight 
ago  for  Marseilles.  The  cable  made  little  differ- 
ence except  that  it  found  you  unprepared.  I  was 
coming  to  the  Island  anyhow." 

"  You  were  coming  —  why  ?  " 

She  regretted  the  question  as  soon  as  it  was 
asked,  and  would  have  recalled  it,  but  he  shook  his 
head. 

"  After  all,  why  should  you  not  know  ?  Let  us 
be  truthful  with  each  other  —  and  with  her.  I 
came  first  because  it  seemed  to  me  I  owed  it  to 
Cecile  to  help  her,  if  I  could,  win  back  peace  if  not 
happiness.  You  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  this 
—  my  first  reason  ?  " 

"  I  believe  you,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was 

380 


THE   SANCTUARY 


the  voice  of  the  woman  who  had  spoken  to  him  one 
Sunday  afternoon  in  the  little  tea-room  at  home. 

"  Ah  —  I  might  have  known.  Sincerity  can  be 
judged  only  by  sincerity,  although  some  would 
doubt  that  I  would  have  come  to  the  Island  if  you 
had  not  been  here.  Yet  —  and  I  would  not  be 
honest  with  myself  or  you,  did  I  try  to  deceive 
myself  into  the  belief  that  the  hope  of  a  sight  of 
you  meant  nothing  to  me.  It  has  been  the  hope 
of  that  sight  of  you  that  sometimes  I  think  has 
kept  me  from  going  mad." 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  woods,  near  to  the  wicket 
gate,  they  paused,  and  it  was  Blair  Martin  who 
first  broke  the  silence. 

"  Let  me  return  to  the  house  —  alone." 

"  As  you  will,"  he  said.  He  took  her  hand  in 
parting  and  bent  over  it  before  he  let  it  gently  fall. 

She  left  him  by  the  stone  bench  where  each  day 
Cecile  waited  for  the  boy  Anthony.  She  wondered 
what  time  it  was.  If  Cecile  would  soon  be  coming 
here? 

As  she  skirted  the  great  garden  Lamore's  voice 
arrested  her.  It  was  anxious,  and  his  face  more 
troubled  than  she  had  ever  seen  it. 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  have  been  searching  for  you 
for  an  hour.  The  servants  told  me  you  were  in 
the  garden,  and  when  I  come  I  find  only  an  empty 
chair  —  an  unread  book." 

He  tried  to  smile  a  little,  but  she  knew  that  it 
was  forced. 

381 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  Almost  constantly  for  two  days  I  have  been 
with  a  dying  peasant.  I  came  as  soon  as  I  could. 
There  is  something  that  I  feel  that  I  must  tell  you 
—  about  a  cablegram  I  sent  from  Grenette  to  — 
Hector  Stone." 

She  felt  herself  beginning  to  tremble.  She  felt 
that  she  must  get  over  the  interview  quickly  and 
be  alone. 

"  Mr.  Stone  is  here." 

Lamore  stared  at  her. 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you,  Mademoiselle. 
I  only  cabled  to  him  late  night  before  last  after 
Duport  left.  America  is  many  miles  away." 

"  He  did  not  come  from  America,  Father.  He 
was  on  his  way  —  he  was  in  Marseilles  —  when 
your  cable  was  forwarded."  She  turned  from  him 
as  though  all  had  been  said. 

"  You  have  seen  him  since  he  landed,  Mademoi- 
selle ?  He  has  told  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Father." 

She  forced  herself  to  look  him  in  the  face,  and 
neither  the  lips  quivered  nor  the  eyelids,  but  for 
the  pity  of  it  —  for  the  stricken  woman's  soul  that 
looked  from  their  depths  —  he  glanced  down. 

"  He  is  here  —  at  the  chateau?  " 

"  At  the  wicket  gate,  Father,  by  the  stone  bench 
hidden  by  the  trees." 

She  turned  to  go  and  he  did  not  detain  her. 

He  watched  her  as  she  entered  the  chateau.  He 
guessed  something  of  the  battle  raging  behind  those 
steady  eyes. 

382 


THE   SANCTUARY 


She  walked  through  the  great  hall  and  up  the 
wide  stairs,  and  it  seemed  to  her  each  step  she  took 
was  weighted  as  with  lead.  She  had  come  to  the 
Island  thinking  to  find  peace,  and  the  Angels  whom 
the  peasants  prayed  to  as  guardians  of  the  Island 
had  laid  a  sword  in  her  hands  instead. 

It  was  the  same  night  that  Lamore,  seated  in  his 
study,  heard  a  knocking  on  the  door.  Marie  and 
the  boy  Anthony  had  long  ago  retired,  and  in  won- 
der Lamore  rose  to  his  feet  and  picked  up  a  lamp. 
It  was  another  sick  call  perhaps  —  some  child  in 
need  —  an  infant  to  be  hastily  baptized. 

He  opened  the  door  and  stood  a  little  to  one 
side.  Across  the  threshold  Hector  Stone  passed  in. 

The  priest  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"  It  was  as  I  thought,"  he  said,  "  in  spite  of 
Duport.  Duport  may  be  right  —  he  probably  is  — 
but,  Father,  she  cannot,  will  not,  take  the  little  hap- 
piness that  I  can  bring  her.  It  is  not  enough  — 
that  feeble  semblance  of  a  sacred  thing.  /  do  not 
—  can  you  blame  her?  " 

Lamore  shook  his  head. 

"  It  was  a  hope  —  a  chance  —  yet  I  who  knew 
her  might  have  known,"  he  answered. 

Stone  entered  the  little  study. 

"  May  I  rest  a  while  until  Fauchet  is  ready?  " 

"  Fauchet  ?  He  is  making  an  extra  trip  to- 
night?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  go  with  him.  There  is  nothing  to 
detain  me  here  —  much  to  take  me  away." 

383 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

He  met  the  eyes  of  the  priest  unashamed.  Great 
love  is  like  great  sorrow;  the  all-purifying  flame  of 
its  mystic  alchemy  leaves  nothing  which  the  soul 
refuses  as  unworthy  to  be  built  into  the  great  tem- 
ple of  itself  which  shall  eternally  endure. 

"  Is  there  —  nothing  that  can  bring  her  peace 
and  happiness  ?  "  he  asked  after  a  moment.  And 
he  thought  only  of  Cecile. 

Lamore  drew  his  hand  slowly  along  the  edge 
of  his  desk  and  looked  down  at  it  thoughtfully. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said.  "  There  is  a  child 
here  —  a  peasant  boy.  He  is  strangely  like  the 
boy  you  and  Cecile  lost.  She  is  learning  to  lean  on 
him  for  happiness,  and  he  may  teach  her  much.  I 
think  she  loved  him  from  the  first  time  she  saw 
him,  but  the  love  she  bears  him,  the  happiness  she 
may  get  from  that  comradeship  is  not  the  happi- 
ness of  which  Duport  thought.  It  will  never  keep 
her  tied  to  earth." 

By  and  by  Stone  rose,  and  Lamore  went  with 
him  to  the  pier  and  watched  him,  by  the  aid  of  his 
big  lantern,  board  Fauchet's  boat.  He  thought  of 
the  Comtesse  and  of  the  American  as  the  engine 
started  and  the  tug  began  to  move  slowly  from 
the  wharf.  From  the  deck  Stone  waved  his  hat 
to  him.  The  intricate  pattern  on  which  he  had 
been  working  —  to  which  Duport  and  Stone  had 
lent  their  aid  —  had  proved  too  difficult  for  his 
hands  and  spoke  of  the  fallibility  of  man.  With  a 
sigh  he  turned  and  retraced  his  steps  to  the  Rectory. 

384 


XIII. 

IN  a  hotel  on  the  summit  of  the  Schynige- 
Plarre  Blair  Martin  sat  by  the  window  in  her 
room  waiting  for  the  mail.  Her  eyes,  fixed 
on  the  scene  before  her,  seemed  hardly  conscious 
of  it  —  the  wonder  of  the  meadows,  the  dun-col- 
ored cattle  peacefully  grazing  below  her,  near  the 
half-way  station  of  Breitlauenen,  or  the  peaks  that 
rose  clear-cut  against  the  summer  sky.  For  weeks 
she  had  been  here,  had  studied  the  meadows  and 
the  mountains  in  their  every  mood.  She  had 
\valked  the  pastures  in  the  light  of  sunset;  she  had 
climbed  the  Gummihorn  and  found  upon  the  top, 
with  the  aid  of  Robert,  her  Swiss  guide,  the  rare 
Martagon  lily,  now  so  seldom  seen.  She  had  rested 
there,  basking  in  the  sunshine,  literally  lying  on  a 
bed  of  flowers,  wondering  why  the  Alps  no  longer 
gave  her  rest.  From  the  shadow  of  the  big  hotel 
she  had  seen  the  night  fall  with  its  mystery  and 
its  beauty  on  the  snow  peaks  outlined  against  the 
sky;  had  later  watched  through  the  big  telescope 
for  the  chamois  coming  out  of  their  hiding  places 
in  the  rocks  to  seek  their  evening  meal. 

She  was  keenly  sensitive,  as  she  had  always  been, 
to  the  wonder  of  Nature,  the  Great  Architect,  but 
she  had  begun  to  long,  as  she  never  had  before,  for 
something  —  for  some  one  —  to  lean  on ;  for  some 

385 


one  to  whom  she  had  a  right  to  turn  and  who  in 
turn  needed  her  as  well.  True,  in  the  adjoining 
room  sat  Hannah,  the  ever  faithful,  who  had  at 
her  call  turned  her  back  on  the  Devonshire  that 
she  loved  with  the  passion  that  increasing  age  feels 
for  the  scenes  of  youth,  but  there  were  moments 
when  she  wondered  if  Hannah  understood  her  as 
well  as  Toinette.  She  could  count  Hannah's  serv- 
ice almost  by  the  years  of  her  life,  and  Toinette  — 
why,  she  had  only  known  Toinette  a  few  months. 

She  wondered  if  she  would  ever  see  the  Island 
again,  and  she  thought  it  doubtful.  Sometimes  it 
seemed  as  though  a  force  stronger  than  her  own 
will  was  forcing  her  back  there  and  she  resisted 
almost  passionately.  Some  day  she  would  forgive 
perhaps  —  perhaps.  .  .  .  There  had  come  to  her  no 
word  from  the  Island  since  she  so  suddenly  left 
the  day  after  she  had  met  Stone  there.  It  was 
as  though  her  life  and  the  life  of  the  Island  were 
as  things  apart.  Yet  once  when  she  had  been  in 
need  the  Island  had  welcomed  her.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door  and  she  turned 
listlessly  to  see  a  servant  bearing  her  mail  to  her 
on  a  wooden  tray.  She  took  the  letters  —  there 
were  only  two  —  indifferently.  The  mail  meant 
nothing  to  her  these  days,  except  a  dressmaker's 
bill  or  a  remittance  from  her  bankers  in  Paris,  or 
perhaps  a  note  from  some  slight  acquaintance  in 
America  who  wished  to  keep  up  the  remembrance 
of  casual  meetings  for  what  Blair  Martin  could 
do  for  her  socially  or  otherwise. 

386 


THE   SANCTUARY 


The  servant  closed  the  door  deferentially  behind 
him.  The  fees  of  the  tall  American  with  the  gray 
eyes  were  always  liberal,  and  where  patrons  were 
so  inclined,  the  servitors  should  have  just  regard 
for  nerves  that  jangled  from  the  hasty  slamming 
of  a  door. 

She  let  the  letters  fall  from  her  hands.  She 
did  not  even  care  to  see  whom  they  were  from,  and 
for  a  while  they  lay  forgotten  in  her  lap.  Then 
she  picked  one  up  and  fingered  it,  letting  her  eyes 
rest  on  the  postmark  and  its  inscription,  and  gave 
a  sudden  cry  as  she  read  the  well-known  hand- 
writing. It  was  from  her  father  —  the  first  sign 
in  all  these  months  from  —  home.  She  tore  it 
open,  and  it  seemed  to  her  her  hands  were  all 
thumbs,  so  awkward  was  she  in  her  haste.  She 
could  not  read  it  at  first,  although  she  brought  it 
up  close  to  her  eyes,  because  of  the  mist  there. 
There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes  —  she  had  forgot- 
ten when  last  she  had  cried,  it  had  been  so  long 
ago  —  but  the  mist  was  there  and  would  not  lift 
at  her  will.  Her  father  !  When  she  had  permitted 
herself  to  think  of  him  it  had  been  with  a  sense  of 
loathing  and  disgust.  All  through  Europe  on  her 
travels,  when  her  identity  had  become  known  — 
when  she  had  been  pointed  out  as  the  great  mag- 
nate's daughter  —  she  had  drawn  within  herself, 
ashamed.  It  might  be  that  the  letter  had  been  writ- 
ten on  the  eve  of  the  marriage  he  had  threatened, 
and  after  he  had  blackened  still  further  the  name 
he  had  given  to  his  only  child  and  the  mother  who 

387 


THE   SANCTUARY 


was  dead.  The  mist  that  had  begun  to  clear  set- 
tled over  her  vision  again.  .  .  .  When  she  was 
able,  she  unfolded  the  pages  and  began  to  read. 
It  was  characteristic  of  her  and  of  the  control  and 
reticence  she  had  inherited  from  her  Scotch  father, 
that  once  having  begun  she  did  not  pause  until 
the  pages  had  all  been  turned  and  she  had  replaced 
the  letter  in  its  envelope.  The  letter,  dated  at  the 
Anchorage,  read : 

"  BLAIR  —  MY  BAIRN  :  —  I  write  this  with  little 
hope  of  its  soon  finding  you.  For  the  last  two 
months  I  have  been  trying  to  discover  your  banker 
(which  was  a  more  difficult  task  than  it  seems), 
and  to  him  I  must  trust  this  letter.  He  will  use 
his  own  time  and  discretion  in  forwarding  it  to 
you  —  in  the  usual  way  of  bankers.  You  may 
perhaps,  if  you  care  to  let  your  mind  dwell  on  a 
past  that  was  after  all  not  all  unhappy,  remember 
my  dislike  to  that  most  obnoxious  but  necessary 
branch  of  finance. 

"  I  have  heard  nothing  from  you  since  you  left 
—  it  has  seemed  to  me  longer  than  a  year.  I  have 
run  across  no  one  who  has  seen  you,  heard  of  you, 
or  tracked  you  down  while  '  doing  Europe.'  I 
hardly  expected  to  hear  of  you  in  the  usual  beaten 
paths  of  travel,  but  in  these  modern  days  I  would, 
a  year  ago,  have  thought  it  an  utterly  improbable 
thing  that  the  earth  could  so  successfully  swallow 
up  a  good-looking  young  woman  like  yourself  and 
a  humble  old  maid,  -unless  indeed  one  resorted  to 

388 


the  secret-service  men.  Of  late  I  have  even  ques- 
tioned Brewster,  who  for  so  long  has  wooed  Han- 
nah with  a  perseverance  that  in  the  world  of  finance 
would  surely  have  won  for  him  his  spurs.  But  if 
Brewster  knows  anything  —  which  I  am  pretty  sure 
he  does  —  he  very  successfully  plays  the  clam.  I 
often  marvel  at  the  devotion  of  the  servants  for 
you  in  this  age  of  fickleness,  and  I  have  remem- 
bered that  Hannah,  in  spite  of  her  loyalty  to  you, 
was  one  on  whom  I  could  rely  did  any  ill  befall  you. 
"  Therefore  I  take  it  for  granted  that  you  are 
well.  I  have  often  wondered  if  you  were  happy; 
ever  wished  to  see  the  Anchorage  or  Ajax  per- 
haps, or  —  the  mimosa  tree  the  three  of  us  planted 
before  your  mother  died.  The  gardens  —  I  have 
never  seen  them  look  better,  although  Thomas  is 
morose;  Ajax  shows  signs  of  age,  but  the  mimosa 
tree  is  wonderful.  It  is  strange  what  friends  the 
mimosa  tree  and  I  have  gotten  to  be.  I  spend  a 
good  deal  of  my  time  at  the  Anchorage  now.  I 
am  beginning  to  feel  that  when  a  man  gets  along 
in  years,  as  I  am  doing,  it  is  just  as  well  to  let  up 
a  little,  and  the  new  manager  promises  well.  You 
have  not  heard,  perhaps,  that  I  have  pensioned  Jen- 
kins? He  wasn't  altogether  up  to  some  new  inno- 
vations I  wanted  to  try  in  the  mills,  and  really 
seemed  glad  to  rest.  It  strikes  me  that  weariness 
is  getting  to  be  pretty  near  the  keynote  of  modern 
existence  in  America.  Hector  Stone  is,  I  believe, 
the  only  man  I  ever  saw  who  does  not  seem  to 
know  fatigue.  He's  still  an  enigma  to  me,  and  I 

389 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

still  contend  that  his  views  (up  to  a  certain  point) 
are  barbaric  and  socialistic,  but  sometimes  I  have 
wondered  if  he  has  not  a  finer  grasp  on  things  than 
most  men.  I  have  seen  him  seldom,  and  if  by  any 
chance  he  knew  your  whereabouts  he  never  told. 
After  all  there  is  no  reason,  I  suppose,  why  he 
should  know.  His  marriage  was  a  great  surprise 
to  me.  I  fancied  once  —  oh,  well,  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter what  I  fancied.  Old  men  are  old  fools,  I  sup- 
pose. His  wife  is  in  poor  health  and  living  some- 
where in  the  south  of  France.  I  understand  that 
he  has  recently  joined  her.  I  confess  I  am  a  bit 
curious  as  to  the  woman  Hector  Stone  would 
choose.  I  saw  him  a  week  before  he  sailed.  It 
seemed  to  me  he  looked  worried  and  older.  He's 
doing  big  work  in  his  own  particular  line  here  in 
America  —  the  press  and  the  people  are  mention- 
ing him  for  District  Attorney  or  even  Governor. 
He's  on  the  high  crest,  and  yet  he  looks  old  and 
troubled.  It  may  be  his  wife's  poor  health.  He 
carries  his  success  with  a  better  balance  than  any 
man  I  ever  saw.  Success  is  a  wine.  Most  of  us 
who  drink  of  it  find  it  as  insidious  as  absinthe.  We 
take  a  little  more  to  dream  more  dreams,  and  if 
the  dreams  are  not  to  our  liking  —  big  enough 
perhaps  —  we  drink  again  until  we  are  drunk.  .  .  . 
I  wonder  why  I  am  writing  so  to  you?  I  doubt 
if  this  letter  ever  reaches  you,  or  if  it  does,  whether 
you  have  not  destroyed  it  before  you  have  reached 
these  maudlin  ideas  of  an  old  man.  ...  I  won- 
der has  it  ever  entered  into  your  conception  of 

390 


THE   SANCTUARY 


things,  the  nature  of  a  man  who  has  been  drugged 
by  success  ?  Could  I,  I  wonder,  —  who  all  my  life 
have  worked,  not  studied  —  tell  you  in  a  few  brief 
sentences  something  of  the  temptation  of  the  aver- 
age man  in  the  world  of  finance  to-day?  You  may 
have  thought  all  these  things  over  in  the  months 
past  and  you  may  see  it  from  another  standard. 
I  do  not  doubt  that  the  standard  will  be  higher  than 
that  to  which  I  have  conformed  my  life.  Has  it 
ever  occurred  to  you  that  a  man's  standard  is  in 
proportion  to  his  development?  It  is  one  of  the 
many  thoughts  given  me  by  Stone.  '  Growth,'  he 
says  —  '  growth  —  all  growth  —  always ! '  I  asked 
him  once  what  growth  he  found  in  the  degenerate 
and  the  criminal.  He  said  that  in  his  years  of  work 
among  nien  of  all  types  and  of  all  strata  of  society 
he  had  never  met  one  that  was  not  possessed  of  a 
ruling  passion.  It  might  be  lust  of  flesh,  or  lust 
of  gold,  or  jealousy  of  wife  or  child,  or  pure  love 
without  a  stain.  He  called  it  the  Center  of  Pro- 
portion. He  claims  it  is  the  standard  to  which  men 
conform  their  lives  —  the  sinner  as  the  saint ;  the 
ignoramus  as  the  sage.  Is  it  true,  I  wonder?  Is 
it  eternal  growth  because  it  is  eternal  experience? 
Do  we  unconsciously,  by  the  law  of  balance,  adjust 
our  lives  by  it  and  judge  the  world  and  men  by 
the  measure  of  ourselves?  If  so,  it  shuts  out  com- 
petition as  to  standards  —  although  we  may  never 
see  it.  ...  I  have  had  long  hours  in  which  to 
think  since  you  left  me,  and  while  there  is  much  in 
Stone's  philosophy  that  I  cannot  grasp  —  perhaps 

391 


THE   SANCTUARY 


would  not  grasp  if  I  coold,  since  we  are  utterly 
different  types  —  yet  he  and  his  work  interest  me 
immensely.  I  am  trying  —  on  a  very  small  scale 
of  course  —  some  of  his  ideas  as  applied  to  the 
question  of  labor.  The  manager  is  a  friend  of 
Stone's,  and  while  I  do  not  give  him  the  leeway 
in  these  matters  that  some  radicals  think  I  might, 
he  seems  satisfied  that  they  should  be  tested  out  in 
a  small  way.  They  could  never  become  a  part  and 
parcel  of  my  life  as  they  are  a  part  and  parcel  of 
his  life  and  Stone's,  and  so  I  leave  it  much  to  him 
—  within  limits.  ...  It  is  one  of  the  many  dis- 
tractions I  have  sought  in  your  absence.  Last  fall 
I  took  enough  time  to  cross  the  ocean.  Somewhere 
in  Europe  you  were  —  the  rest  interested  me  little. 
The  hotels  —  except  in  London  —  were  execrable 
and  exorbitant;  perhaps  because  my  coming  was 
heralded  according  to  the  abominable  methods  of 
the  modern  press.  The  food  was  not  to  my  liking; 
the  cabbies  impertinent,  and  the  little  town  near 
Glasgow  where  I  was  born  quite  changed.  Neither 
am  I  up  to  European  art.  The  museums  are  tire- 
some with  their  dried  mummies  and  their  coarse, 
wooden,  peasant-faced  Madonnas  and  saints.  Once, 
long  ago,  the  night  that  you  were  born,  I  saw  in  the 
face  of  your  mother  a  divinity  that  was  enough  for 
me.  She  was  my  religion,  although  she  had  so  frail 
and  poor  a  worshiper,  and  I  have  judged  by  her. 
She  has  been  my  Center  of  Proportion  as  far  as 
women  were  concerned.  No  one  ever  came  near  to 
that  ideal  but  you.  ...  I  fancy  I  can  see  you  smile 

392 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

with  the  scornful  look  upon  your  face  that  was  on 
it  that  morning  in  the  garden  .  .  .  yet,  Blair,  it  is 
true  —  it  is  true !  You  will  say  that  the  money 
and  the  power  has  been,  still  is,  my  Center  of  Pro- 
portion, and  in  a  measure  you  perhaps  are  right. 
It  is  only  in  silly  novels,  written  by  dreamers  or 
young  girls  who  know  nothing  of  real  life,  where 
the  traits  of  a  lifetime  are  changed  by  the  hero's 
words  or  a  woman's  smile;  where  the  deep-dyed 
villain  becomes  suddenly  the  wishy-washy  penitent, 
and  where  the  man  who  has  amassed  a  fortune  by 
work  that  has  become  at  once  his  passion  and  the 
real  pleasure  of  his  life  —  who  has  drunk  deep  of 
power,  success  and  fame,  —  is  willing  to  put  the  cup 
aside.  The  passion  for  power  is  an  intoxicating 
thing  —  a  disease  if  you  will  —  and  no  one  but 
the  man  who  has  controlled  vast  enterprises, 
thought  out  vast  schemes  for  aggrandizement, 
wrestled  with  the  chances  of  fate,  and  seen  the 
balance  waver,  can  know  how  the  fascination  of 
the  game  grips  and  becomes  part  and  parcel  of  his 
life.  Yet  when  one  is  growing  old,  and  the  dark- 
ness that  no  faith  has  ever  come  to  break  steals  from 
the  night  of  time,  a  man  is  something  of  a  kid  again. 
It  was  a  woman's  breast  that  sheltered  him  at  first ; 
it  is  a  woman's  heart  he  needs  toward  the  close. 

"  I  ask  of  you  nothing  that  you  do  not  care  to 
give  —  I  have  no  desire  for  you  to  think  me  other 
than  I  am,  since  I  am  what  I  am.  This  much 
at  least  I  have  learned  from  Truth;  but  if  from 
your  Center  of  Proportion  you  can  see  things  as 

393 


*g  THE   SANCTUARY  f* 

they  are,  judge  them  still  by  your  high  standard 
and  yet  remember  that  the  standards  of  others  are 
not  (cannot  of  necessity  be  in  their  non-develop- 
ment) the  standards  of  yourself,  which  is  in  pro- 
portion to  your  personal  growth,  I  shall  be  glad,  for 
it  will  mean  that  you  will  come  home  again." 

The  letter  was  signed  by  the  well-known  signa- 
ture, that  had  lost  nothing  of  its  power,  and  was 
without  one  term  of  endearment  except  the  Scotch 
word  at  the  beginning. 

She  replaced  it  in  its  envelope,  and  the  gesture 
was  one  of  infinite  longing  and  pity,  and  she  laid 
it  on  the  table  by  her  side,  staring  down  at  it. 

Then  something  white  in  her  lap  attracted  her 
attention,  and  she  slowly  picked  up  the  other  letter 
that  had  come,  and  broke  the  seal.  She  had  for- 
gotten it.  She  smoothed  out  the  sheets  —  there 
were  only  two  and  the  message  was  brief.  It  was 
in  Lamore's  hand.  Like  her  father's  it  held  but 
little  appeal,  but  it  stated  facts,  and  when  she  had 
read  it,  so  potent  was  the  spell  that  it  had  wrought, 
she  forgot  her  father  and  all  the  world  except  that 
spot  upon  its  surface  —  the  Island  of  the  Angels 
and  the  woman  there. 

She  rose  swiftly  to  her  feet  and  went  to  Han- 
nah's door  and  called  her.  Some  note  in  her  voice 
made  the  old  woman,  who  was  nodding  in  her 
chair,  rise,  wide  awake,  at  once. 

'  The  trunks,  Hannah ;  let  us  get  at  the  trunks !  " 

Hannah  looked  at  her  with  hurt  eyes. 

394 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  Where  are  we  going  now  ?  "  she  asked,  and 
her  tone  was  a  mixture  of  fatigue  and  patience. 

Blair  Martin  smiled.  For  an  instant  she  laid  a 
hand  upon  the  bent  shoulders. 

"  You  are  to  go  back  to  Devonshire,  you  good 
old  soul,  after  you  have  gotten  me  off  for  the 
Island." 

Hannah  regarded  her  with  stern  eyes. 

"  The  Island  !  One  would  think  it  was  your 
home,  Miss  Blair,  the  way  you  love  the  Island." 

Blair  Martin  looked  up  from  some  business  pa- 
pers she  had  begun  to  sort  on  the  table.  She  did 
not  know  that  her  hand  touched  her  father's  letter. 

"  You  will  wait  for  me  in  Devonshire,  won't 
you?"  she  asked  in  the  tone  that  Hannah  never 
could  resist.  "  When  —  when  something  that  I 
have  to  do  there  is  over  I  will  join  you,  and  then, 
Hannah,  we  will  go  home." 

The  old  woman  stared. 

"  You  mean  —  "  she  said,  and  then  broke  off. 
She  suddenly  bethought  herself  of  Brewster. 

Blair  Martin  fastened  together  some  business 
correspondence  with  an  elastic  band.  For  the  first 
time  she  was  judging  life  as  it  was,  unconscious 
that  in  so  judging  she  had  by  growth  raised  her 
Center  of  Proportion. 

"  I  mean  to  the  Anchorage,"  she  said  slowly. 
"  I  mean  back  to  Ajax  and  all  the  old  servants, 
and  the  garden  and  the  mimosa  tree.  I  mean  home 
to  my  father." 


395 


XIV. 

THE  harvest  of  the  vineyards  had  been  gath- 
ered when  Blair  Martin  returned  to  the 
Island  of  the  Angels.  She  was  shocked 
at  the  change  in  Cecile,  and  the  first  night  of  her 
return  she  could,  not  sleep  for  remembering  it. 
She  had  come  back  in  humbleness,  as  a  little  child 
returns  home  to  acknowledge  its  mistake,  and 
Cecile  had  met  her  at  her  own  level.  If  she  had 
feared  repulse,  remembering  their  last  interview 
and  the  stinging  reproach  with  which  she  had  cast 
the  dust  of  the  chateau  from  her,  it  vanished  at 
the  moment  that  she  met  Cecile' s  grave,  question- 
ing eyes.  Indeed  in  those  first  days,  in  spite  of 
failing  bodily  endurance,  it  seemed  as  though 
there  were  times  in  which  Cecile  was  the  stronger 
of  the  two.  If  the  shadow  of  an  impending  loss 
lay  upon  Blair  Martin's  face,  it  was  Cecile  who 
charmed  her  back  to  cheerfulness  by  her  bril- 
liant mind,  by  the  keen  wit  and  humor  of  her 
tongue.  Then  there  came  a  time  —  it  was  after 
Duport  had  made  his  second  trip,  the  reasons  for 
which  this  time  he  took  no  trouble  to  conceal  — 
that  she  awoke  as  from  an  evil  dream  and  there 
stirred  in  her  the  fighting  blood  of  her  father's 
Scottish  clan.  When  that  came  she  threw  herself 

396 


THE   SANCTUARY 


with  all  the  broadness  of  her  nature  into  a  self- 
appointed  task.  She  sat  beside  Cecile's  bed,  the 
room  in  shadows  that  only  the  moonlight  broke  in 
long  shafts  of  light,  and  hummed  the  slumber  songs 
of  the  blacks  of  her  mother's  land.  She  read  to 
her  beneath  the  trees  the  songs  of  France  in 
the  beauty  of  originals,  her  perfect  accent  and  her 
modulated  voice  making  the  listening  a  delight. 
When  Cecile  grew  restive  from  the  weakness  that 
she  found  harder  to  bear  than  physical  pain,  Blair 
Martin  would  slip  away  to  the  great  music  room 
and  take  from  its  case  her  violin,  knowing  that 
the  sonatas  of  Beethoven  or  bars  of  Handel  that 
she  played  could  be  heard  upon  the  terraces,  and 
would  bring  Cecile  as  surely  as  the  magnet  draws 
the  steel.  Cecile,  on  joining  her,  would  sometimes 
open  the  great  piano,  and  together  they  would  play 
some  well-known  concerto  ;  sometimes  she  —  the 
Comtesse  —  played  alone,  and  it  was  the  American 
who  listened,  marveling  at  the  strength  in  those 
frail  hands  that  had  of  late  found  the  embroidery 
needle  heavy.  She  learned  much  from  the  French 
woman's  interpretations  of  the  masters,  much  of 
mental  and  spiritual  benefit,  from  watching  the 
swift  changes  on  that  expressive  face.  The  Com- 
tesse often  played  the  Russian  air  now  —  repeating 
it  over  and  over  as  a  cloistered  sister  in  adoration 
before  the  Blessed  Sacrament  in  some  dim  chapel, 
tells  over  and  over  the  beads  that  hang  from  her 
girdle.  Schubert  she  never  played. 

So  the  days  went  on.    Each  afternoon  after  the 

397 


THE   SANCTUARY 


work  was  done  —  and  for  some  reason  Lamore 
shortened  the  work  now  —  the  child  Anthony 
climbed  the  heights,  and  as  by  a  tacit  understand- 
ing between  the  American  woman  and  the  French 
priest,  the  Comtesse  and  the  boy  were  always  left 
alone  together.  Lamore,  in  his  study  in  the  valley 
or  before  the  sanctuary  of  St.  Michael's  on  the 
Rock,  would  then  kneel  and  pray  —  perhaps  look 
up  to  the  great  window  above  the  altar  where,  lean- 
ing on  his  spear,  the  Archangel  Warrior  looked 
down  on  him  through  marvelous  tints  of  green  and 
red  and  blue  and  gold.  The  window  held  but  two 
figures  —  the  Archangel  and  a  boy  child  in  front 
holding  aloft  the  helmet  of  the  leader  of  the  heav- 
enly hosts.  The  peasant  —  little  Anthony  Carrere 
—  had  posed  for  it.  Long,  long  Lamore  might 
kneel  here,  while  the  real  little  Anthony  was  walk- 
ing the  winding  garden  paths  with  the  last  Com- 
tesse of  the  line,  long  he  might  kneel  drinking  in 
the  message  of  St.  Michael's,  at  first  too  tired  or 
too  anxious  to  find  prayer  coming  readily  to  his 
lips,  until,  soothed  by  its  peace,  his  soul  steeped  in 
it,  he  would  emerge  from  the  side  entrance  of  St. 
Michael's,  as  likely  as  not  to  find  the  American 
sitting  waiting  for  him  on  the  stone  steps,  gazing 
out  to  sea.  They  saw  each  other  much  these  days, 
as  though  a  mutual  interest  and  a  mutual  fear 
bound  them  in  some  close  tie.  On  such  occasions, 
coming  from  the  cool  splendor  of  those  Gothic 
arches,  from  the  strange  influences  that  dwelt  there, 
he  would  note  a  yearning  in  her  eyes,  as  he  locked 

398 


THE   SANCTUARY 


the  door  behind  him,  of  which  she  was  not  aware. 
Nor  was  she  aware  how  in  those  days  he  was 
weighing  her  heart  and  soul  on  the  delicate  scales 
of  spiritual  perception,  but  he  never  asked  her  to 
St.  Michael's.  Together  they  would  descend  the 
heights,  as  they  had  that  day  when  she  had  first 
heard  him  play  and  seen  the  Dream  Bridge  built 
of  the  music,  span  the  southern  sky.  Sometimes 
they  walked  in  silence  that  neither  felt  it  necessary 
to  break.  Sometimes  they  talked  together,  and 
their  talk  was  mostly  of  Cecile.  He  never  ques- 
tioned her  as  to  her  sudden  leaving  or  why  she  had 
returned,  and  it  was  she  who  one  day  abruptly 
brought  the  subject  up. 

"  You  have  never  asked  me  why  I  came  back 
to  the  Island,  Father,"  she  said,  as  they  crossed 
the  clearing  to  the  wooded  slopes. 

He  smiled  a  little  from  his  height  at  her. 

"  I  never  thought  it  necessary,  Mademoiselle." 

"  You  knew  it  was  your  letter  sent  to  the 
Schynige-Plarre,  that  brought  me  ?  " 

"  Not  entirely.  I  fancied  you  would  have  re- 
turned without  the  letter  —  perhaps  not  so  soon  — 
but  returned  certainly." 

She  sighed  a  little  and  looked  off  toward  the  sea 
before  the  woods  closed  the  vision  from  her  eyes. 

"  I  fancy  you  are  right.  I  was  not  altogether 
happy  at  the  Schynige-Plarre.  I  had  a  strange 
fancy  that  the  Island  was  calling  me."  She 
laughed  in  a  half-ashamed  way,  but  Lamore  did 
not  even  smile. 

399 


"  The  Island  has  a  strange  way  of  calling  her 
own,  Mademoiselle  —  or  perhaps  it  is  St.  Michael's 
—  I  have  felt  the  call  whenever  I  have  been  in 
foreign  lands,"  he  said  gravely. 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  entirely  the 
Island,  Father.  I  think  it  was  more  Cecile  and 
her  need." 

"  Mademoiselle,  your  coming  has  brought  hap- 
piness to  the  chateau,  and  our  lady  needs  all  of 
happiness  that  we  can  give  her." 

Blair  Martin's  mouth  trembled  a  little. 

"  It  has  seemed  to  me  of  late  that  I  could  not 
give  her  happiness  enough.  I  was  very  cruel  in 
my  sudden  leaving  —  " 

She  broke  off.  It  would  have  been  a  relief  if 
he  had  questioned  her,  but  he  did  not.  His  steady, 
even  footfall  on  the  pine  needles  and  the  rustling 
undergrowth  near  the  trail  alone  broke  the  stillness 
of  the  clear,  bright  air. 

"  Why  or  how  she  hurt  me  has  no  part  in  this 
confession.  It  is  enough  that  I  thought  she  had 
wounded  me  so  I  never  could  forgive.  My  nature 
was  too  small  to  overlook  the  hurt  —  my  pride  too 
unyielding  to  condone.  Of  late,  Father,  it  has 
seemed  to  me  that  the  one  unpardonable  offense 
in  the  sight  of  the  Most  High  must  be  the  pride 
that  warps  our  souls  as  metal  is  warped  in  the  fur- 
nace heat." 

"  You  forget,  Mademoiselle,  it  is  the  furnace 
heat  that  shapes  the  metal  into  things  of  beauty 
and  of  power.  We  grow  only  by  experience,  Made- 

400 


THE   SANCTUARY 


moiselle.  It  was  for  experience  that  the  Great  Love 
first  evolved  the  Eternal  Scheme  of  Things,  that 
man  might  pit  his  finite  strength  against  its  force 
and  prove  the  latent  divinity  within  him." 

She  flushed  a  little. 

"  It  is  because  I  would  not  have  you  think  me 
better  than  I  am  that  I  told  you." 

"  I  have  never  thought  you  other  than  you  are," 
Lamore  said  aloud,  meeting  Blair  Martin's  eyes. 
To  himself  he  said,  "  No  wonder  that  he  loves  her." 

He  helped  her  in  silence  over  a  huge  boulder  that 
lay  in  their  path. 

"  Sometimes  in  your  strict  honesty  and  self- 
accusations  you  remind  me  of  my  little  Anthony," 
he  said  at  length. 

She  laughed. 

"  Would  that  I  had  the  child-heart  of  your  little 
Anthony.  He  interests  me  strangely.  I  have 
dreamed  strange  dreams  of  him  of  late  —  what 
will  his  future  be?  " 

"  I  know  not,  Mademoiselle.  A  child's  nature 
is  unformed,  yet  sometimes  I  have  fancied  he  would 
carry  on  my  work  here  in  the  years  that  lie  ahead." 

"  I  fancy  Anthony  in  some  dim  way  thinks  that 
too,  although  I  doubt  if  he  has  ever  thought  of  his 
life  without  you  or  —  his  lady  at  the  chateau." 

She  paused  a  moment  before  a  rustic  seat. 
"  Let  us  rest  a  while.  It  is  the  child's  time  with 
Cecile.  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  she  could  not 
love  him  more  if  in  truth  he  were  the  little  Count." 

Lamore  played  with  a  pine  cone  he  had  picked 

401 


THE   SANCTUARY 


up  at  his  feet.  Suddenly  his  restive  hands  paused 
in  their  task  and  he  looked  at  the  American. 

"  Had  you  ever  thought  how  different  things 
would  have  been,  Mademoiselle,  if  the  little  Count 
had  lived?  Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  loneli- 
ness of  the  great  chateau  —  after  she  is  gone  ?  " 

Blair  Martin  nodded. 

"Yet  I  suppose  there  is  an  end  to  all  things  — 
as  stars  fall  and  dynasties  fail  —  the  line  some  day 
would  have  become  extinct.  Cecile  has  told  me 
that  even  without  your  church  orders,  neither  you 
nor  Cardinal  Venusti  are  in  the  line  of  succession. 
I  fancy  if  the  little  Count  had  lived  he  would  have 
been  by  now  the  counterpart  of  the  little  peasant 
boy,  and  —  the  little  peasant  boy  says  he  is  to  be 
a  priest.  .  .  .  Sometimes  in  my  fancies  I  have 
seen  him,  just  grown  to  be  a  man,  walking  the 
chateau  gardens  in  the  early  morning,  or  perhaps 
when  all  is  quiet  toward  evening,  a  breviary  in  his 
hands." 

"  There  is  an  old  legend  of  the  Grandcoeurs, 
Mademoiselle,  that  says  the  curse  shall  end  only 
when  a  Grandcceur  can  forgive;  only  when  a 
Grandcceur  can  forget  —  then  and  then  only  will 
the  strife  of  the  centuries  be  replaced  by  peace. 
And  strangely  enough,  Mademoiselle,  it  is  written 
in  the  old  records  that  are  still  in  the  chateau 
library,  that  the  peace  shall  be  bought  some  day  at 
the  hands  of  a  little  child." 

She  traced  a  pattern  in  the  pine  needles  with  the 
toe  of  her  Oxford  shoe. 

402 


THE   SANCTUARY 


11  Since  I  left  America,  not  so  very  long  ago,  I 
have  sometimes  felt  that  I  was  living  in  a  book." 

He  smiled. 

"  We  are  very  real,"  he  answered,  "  all  of  us  — 
our  Island  and  our  peasants  and  our  little  Anthony 
and  —  our  lady." 

"  Your  Island  and  your  little  Anthony  and  your 
lady,"  she  repeated  musingly,  staring  into  the  shad- 
ows of  the  woods,  "  they  are  all  dear,"  her  voice 
was  tenderer  than  he  had  ever  heard  it.  "  When 
I  return  to  America  I  shall  remember  it  all.  When 
my  task  here  is  ended  I  am  going  home,  you  know." 

"  I  did  not  know,  but  I  am  glad,  Mademoiselle." 

"  There  is  work  there  to  do  —  work  that  in  my 
despair  and  unbelief  I  laid  aside ;  there  are  wounds 
to  heal  and  burdens  to  lift  and  little  children  to 
rescue.  It  may  be  that  I  can  help,  but  even  mil- 
lions, Father,  seem  so  small." 

"  It  is  not  the  millions,  Mademoiselle,  that  lift 
the  burdens  of  the  world.  Millions  may  endow  an 
university,  but  it  is  the  men  who  teach  there  and 
who  in  teaching  give  themselves,  who  really  serve. 
The  universities  will  crumble,  the  endowed  libra- 
ries will  burn,  and  the  memory  of  the  men  whose 
millions  built  them  will  be  as  nothing.  It  is  the 
influence  of  the  books  written  there  —  the  lessons 
taught  the  people  —  that  will  remain,  and  be 
poured  into  the  great  reservoir  of  mental  and  spir- 
itual force  for  the  uplifting  of  the  world.  So  will 
our  monuments  endure  after  the  marble  has  been 
broken  and  the  wood  decayed.  It  is  the  only 

403 


THE   SANCTUARY 


earthly  immortality  worth  striving  for  —  what 
Time  will  leave  us.  How  frail  —  how  great  is 
man!" 

She  looked  in  silence  on  him,  at  his  face  lighted 
as  from  an  inward  fire,  and  she  was  strangely 
moved. 

"  I  shall  remember  what  you  say,"  she  answered, 
"  always." 

"  Always,  Mademoiselle,  will  my  blessing  follow 
you  and  your  work,  when  you  go  from  us  after  the 
task  you  speak  of  is  ended.  May  I,  because  I  am 
your  friend,  ask  you  what  it  is  ?  " 

Slowly  she  turned  her  face  to  him. 

"  It  is  Hector  and  Cecile  —  that  I  may  bring 
them  together  before  I  go,"  she  answered. 

It  wanted  some  two  hours  of  sunset  when  La- 
more  parted  from  her  at  the  wicket  gate.  The 
chateau  garden  was  deserted  and  there  were  not 
even  on  the  terraces  any  sign  of  the  Comtesse  and 
the  child.  At  the  big  entrance  to  the  house  a  maid 
met  her. 

"  The  Comtesse  requests  that  Mademoiselle  will 
join  her  by  the  big  window  on  the  north  landing." 

Blair  Martin  mounted  the  stairs  at  once  and 
turned  down  the  winding  passage  that  led  to  where 
Cecile  awaited  her.  She  had  not  stopped  to  ques*- 
tion  or  to  wonder.  She  found  the  Comtesse  sit- 
ting on  the  window-seat  of  the  north  stairway,  and 
that  commanded  a  wonderful  view  of  land  and  sea. 
She  made  a  lonely,  lovely  picture  with  the  back- 

404 


*B  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

ground  of  mediaeval  grandeur,  a  basket  of  keys  at 
her  side.  She  turned  and  smiled  as  the  American 
came  near,  and  Blair  Martin  was  struck  anew  with 
the  nobility  of  face  and  bearing. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  mon  amie  ?  I  have 
waited,  oh  —  some  time !  I  let  Anthony  go  early 

—  I  cannot  permit  myself  to  see  as  much  of  him 
as  I  would  wish.     I  have  not  held  him  near  me 
since  Duport's  last  visit  here."     She  looked  up  at 
the  American,  a  veiled  sadness  in  her  eyes.     "  Ah, 
well  —  how  is  it  you  say  in  your  great  America, 
'  it  is  all  in  the  day's  work?'     I  am  stronger  to- 
day, and  I  wanted  to  go  through  the  house  again 

—  as  its  chatelaine.     I  thought  you  might  like  to 
go  too." 

She  rose  from  the  window-seat  and  for  a  little 
while  stood  there  looking  out  across  the  great  stone 
buildings  of  the  chateau  down  the  steep  heights 
to  the  valleys.  Thoughtfully,  she  let  her  gaze  lin- 
ger on  each  familiar  thing.  She  spoke  musingly. 

"  There,  the  great  gateway  through  which  a  king 
of  France  rode,  and  there,  the  courtyard  where 
Rene,  the  Crusade  Count,  drilled  his  men,  and  there, 
where  the  gardens  make  a  loop,  the  house  used  for 
years  by  the  private  confessors  of  the  Grandcceurs 

—  how  they  needed  them !    The  Cardinal  in  Rome 

—  he  was  the  last  who  lived  there  in  my  mother's 
time,  before  the  Church  honored  him :    voila,  the 
house  has  been  closed  since,  Mademoiselle  —  Fa- 
ther Lamore  being  all  I  need."     She  smiled  a  little. 
"  The  old  chapel  under  the  chateau  roof  burned 

405 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

and  never  rebuilt,  and  for  the  first  time  in  cen- 
turies no  chaplain  for  the  house !  The  Count  Rene 
would  declare  we  were  turning  heathen."  She 
began  to  walk  slowly  down  the  long  corridor,  still 
smiling  a  little. 

The  American  helped  her  up  some  winding  stairs. 

"  The  Count  Rene  never  dreamed  of  a  St. 
Michael's." 

"  True,  mon  amie.  You  have  been  inside  St. 
Michael's?" 

"  No,"  said  the  American  gently  as  she  helped 
the  Comtesse  up  the  last  stair. 

"Ah!" 

In  silence  the  American  followed  the  Comtesse. 
She  wondered  why  the  slight  figure  ahead  did  not 
lose  her  way,  so  many  were  the  passages,  so  numer- 
ous were  the  turns,  so  vast  the  suites  she  led  her 
through;  but  the  Comtesse  never  paused  except 
to  show  her  guest  rare  tapestry  or  ornament  of 
artistic  or  historical  value  with  which  the  chateau 
was  filled. 

"  It  is  priceless,"  said  the  American  as  the  Com- 
tesse took  from  its  scabbard  a  jewel-hilted  sword 
that  hung  on  the  wall  of  the  bedroom  once  occupied 
by  the  great  Louis,  and  which  he  had  left  as  a  gift 
to  the  Grandcceurs.  "  How  have  you  kept  the 
treasures  hidden  for  so  long?  They  would  fill  a 
museum  —  bring  almost  fabulous  prices." 

"  Strange  as  it  seems,  Mademoiselle,  there  have 
never  been  admitted  beyond  the  salons  of  the  cha- 
teau men  and  women  of  the  type  you  mention. 

406 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

It  is  an  unwritten  code.  We  have  kept  our  gifts 
as  we  have  kept  our  sorrows,  much  hidden  from 
the  world."  The  Comtesse  replaced  the  sword  in 
its  scabbard  with  a  sure,  quick  thrust  and  rehung  it 
on  the  wall. 

From  room  to  room  they  wandered,  and  it 
seemed  to  the  American  that  neither  the  rooms  nor 
the  wonders  of  the  chateau  would  ever  be  ex- 
hausted. The  chatelaine,  upheld  by  a  sudden 
strength,  seemed  conscious  of  no  fatigue,  but  Blair 
Martin  noticed,  as  they  left  each  treasure-filled, 
memory-haunted  room,  the  chatelaine  lingered  and 
gave  one  swift,  solemn  glance  around,  before  she 
locked  each  door. 

The  glow  of  sunset  had  faded  from  the  sky  when 
they  mounted  the  turret  steps  and  half-way  up  in 
a  little  recess  paused  before  an  oaken  chest. 

With  deft  fingers  Cecile  chose  the  key  from  her 
long  chain  and  lifted  the  lid.  Blair  Martin  watched 
her  as  she  knelt  by  the  chest,  herself  seated  on  one 
of  the  steps  of  the  winding  stair.  She  wondered 
what  new  marvel  was  coming  next.  Her  mind 
was  crowded  with  thoughts  of  the  journey  they 
had  made  through  all  the  chateau  splendor;  the 
great  suite  hung  in  crimson  for  the  cardinals  of 
the  house;  the  state  chambers  once  occupied  by  a 
king  of  France,  the  rooms  where  the  Comtesse 
Clarisse  had  lived  and  died  —  where  Cecile  had 
been  born  —  the  nurseries,  with  the  silent,  unused 
toys  as  the  little  Count  had  left  them  years  ago, 
and  touched  by  the  light  of  sunset. 

407 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  Ma  chere,"  it  was  the  voice  of  the  little  Count's 
mother  that  broke  upon  her  re  very,  "behold!  " 

Blair  Martin  looked  up.  Before  her  stood  the 
Comtesse,  almost  wholly  hidden  by  a  huge  square 
banner,  whereon  was  embroidered  the  Grandcceurs' 
arms;  gold  fringe  bordered  it,  and  it  swept  the 
floor  around  the  feet  of  the  American  like  a  robe 
of  state. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked  softly. 

"  It  is  the  last  great  treasure  of  the  house  — 
centuries  old.  It  is  the  Great  Banner  that  flies  from 
the  turret  when  the  heir  of  the  chateau  dies.  See 
the  wonder  of  the  silk  and  the  embroidery  and  the 
brightness  of  the  gold  thread  that  has  almost  out- 
lived the  race  and  line." 

The  Comtesse  touched  the  thing  of  silk  as  one 
might  touch  a  child.  Blair  Martin  neither  spoke 
again  nor  moved. 

She  watched  Cecile  refold  it  and  she  forgot  to 
offer  help  at  the  task.  The  Comtesse  replaced  it 
in  the  chest  and  knelt  regarding  it. 

"  New,"  she  said,  "  new,  in  the  time  of  Rene," 
and  it  was  as  though  she  were  speaking  to  herself. 
"  Once  more  it  shall  fly  from  the  high  turret.  .  .  ." 

Blair  Martin  rose  swiftly  and  knelt  beside  her 
and  threw  her  arms  around  her.  The  arms  held 
the  frail  being  to  her  with  a  sudden  strength. 

"  Hush  !  Hush  !  My  dear,"  she  whispered 
sharply.  "  The  Great  Banner  shall  sleep  within 
its  chest  for  years." 

The   Comtesse  looked   long  into  the   face  near 

408 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

her  own  and  saw  it  stricken  with  emotion.  Then 
she  kissed  Blair  Martin's  hair. 

"  What  matter  it,  mon  amie?  "  she  said,  a  strange 
yearning  in  her  voice.  "  The  Banner  shall  know  at 
last  a  happier  fate.  For  years  it  has  flown  as  the 
sign  and  symbol  of  violence  and  of  woe  —  it  shall 
fly  once  to  signify  rest  for  the  line,  and  love,  since 
at  last  a  de  Grandcceur  has  gained  —  a  friend." 

Then  she  rose  and  closed  the  lid  of  the  oaken 
chest  and  locked  it  for  the  last  time. 


409 


XV. 

IT  was  Blair  Martin  who  a  fortnight  later  rriet 
Lamore  at  the  entrance  of  the  chateau.  Her 
eyes,  like  somber  pools  in  shaded  woods,  re- 
flected shadows  deep  and  still. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come.  She  has  been 
watching  for  you." 

"  She  —  my  child  —  has  needed  me?  " 

Blair  Martin  shook  her  head. 

"  She  wants  you.  She  seems  to  have  something 
to  talk  to  you  about.  She  doubtless  needs  you  more 
than  any  one  else  —  except  perhaps  Hector  Stone," 
the  voice  took  on  no  change.  "  He  is  coming.  I 
wrote  to  him  last  night  from  her.  But  need?  I 
do  not  think  she  needs  any  of  us  very  much.  She 
is  very  quiet.  She  seems  —  content.  Perhaps  it 
is  weakness  or  —  "  the  voice  that  had  not  changed 
at  the  mention  of  Hector  Stone's  name  trembled 
now,  "  or  —  oh,  Father,  she  talks  about  the  little 
Anthony  —  she  talks  about  the  child  she  lost  —  " 
Blair  Martin's  eyes  were  turned  to  him  with  tears 
of  which  she  was  unashamed. 

He  did  not  speak,  and  bowed  his  head  in  silence, 
and  in  silence  he  left  her  and  crossed  the  great  hall 
hung  with  its  old  tapestries,  flanked  by  its  armor 
of  gone  and  dead  de  Grandcoeurs.  "  The  last  of  her 

410 


THE   SANCTUARY 


race  and  line,"  he  thought.  "  A  great  race  in  spite 
of  the  blot  and  sin  on  its  escutcheon,  and  she  — 
the  daughter  of  Clarisse  —  the  last  of  all  !  " 

He  was  out  on  the  back  terrace  now,  where  habit 
and  instinct  told  him  he  would  find  her.  His  foot- 
falls made  no  echo  on  the  perfect  greenness  of  that 
well-kept  spot,  and  for  a  moment  he  stood  regard- 
ing her,  himself  unseen. 

She  was  sitting  in  a  large,  low  wicker  chair, 
some  fine  white  sewing  lying  in  her  lap,  where  in 
weariness  she  had  laid  it  down.  Her  pale  gown 
of  pink  shone  out  like  a  bit  of  sunrise  against  the 
verdure  of  the  big  trees.  Her  work-bag,  a  fragile 
thing  of  lavender  beauty,  lay  on  the  grass  beside 
her  chair.  As  though  becoming  conscious  of  a 
presence,  she  turned  her  head  in  his  direction,  but 
without  haste  and  without  surprise. 

"  You  were  bad  —  very  bad  —  not  to  announce 
yourself.  Did  you  not  know  that  that  ridiculous 
little  Keller,  and  even  the  great  Duport,  said  I  was 
not  to  be  suddenly  alarmed  ?  " 

She  leaned  forward  and  held  out  her  hand 
eagerly. 

He  crossed  the  terrace  with  an  answering  smile. 

"  The  same  Cecile  who,  ever  since  she  could  but 
half  pronounce  my  name,  has  teased  and  abused 
me.  Nay,  do  not  draw  down  your  mouth  so  or 
look  so  grave.  Cannot  two  play  at  the  little  game? 
And  besides,  Madame,  surely  it  is  the  privilege  of 
your  sex  —  for  you  especially,  for  are  you  not  the 
Chatelaine  of  the  Island  of  the  Angels  —  does  not 

411 


THE   SANCTUARY 


all  this  beauty  and  this  peace,  and  the  respect  and 
the  devotion  of  our  hearts  belong  to  you?  " 

The  smile  of  welcome  faded  into  one  of  wistful- 
ness. 

"  How  well  you  say  what  gives  pleasure  and  — 
help,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  Yet  in  these  last 
months  I  have  thought,  dearer  than  the  beauty  of 
the  Island  of  the  Angels,  sweeter  than  its  peace, 
more  to  be  prized  than  the  devotion,  is  the  respect 
of  which  you  speak.  I  have  strange  thoughts,  here 
in  the  sunshine  of  these  gardens  overlooking  the 
sea  and  the  vineyards  and  the  homes  of  my  people 
far  below  —  strange  thoughts  as  I  look  toward  St. 
Michael's  —  and  somehow  I  fancy  that  all  lives 
have  to  be  built  on  that  —  respect  of  others,  respect 
of  self  —  as  we  built  St.  Michael's  on  the  Rock." 

He  sat  down  in  a  garden  chair  near  her,  leaned 
his  elbow  on  the  arm,  his  chin  in  his  hand.  He 
was  conscious  that  his  presence  was  a  relief  —  as 
great  a  relief  as  was  the  silence  of  her  heart  that 
she  was  at  last  breaking.  How  often  had  the  great 
heart  of  humanity,  crushed,  bruised,  sin-stained, 
been  laid  near  his  own  for  healing.  And  she  — 
was  she  not  Cecile? 

"It  is  about  St.  Michael's  that  I  want  to  talk 
to-day  —  St.  Michael's  and  other  things.  I  do  not 
talk  much  now  —  it  tires  me  —  and  there  are  so 
many  things  to  think  of,  Father  ;  some  of  them  are 
beautiful  things  —  like  the  face  of  a  little  child  — 
or  a  peasant's  gift  of  flowers  —  and  then  there  are 
other  things  that  hurt  —  "  she  made  a  swift  move- 

412 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

ment  of  pain  — "  does  it  not  seem  strange  that 
anything  could  hurt  one  in  all  this  beauty  and  this 
sunshine  ?  " 

He  followed  her  gaze.  Far  out  on  the  waters  the 
white  sails  of  the  fishing-boats  were  shining  and 
swinging  idly  in  the  warmth  of  the  late  afternoon. 
A  delicious  languor  enveloped  all  things.  A  pale 
slender  moon  hung  like  a  curve  of  light  in  the 
changing  heavens  and  shone  out  behind  the  gold 
cross  on  the  steeple  of  St.  Michael's.  One  low, 
sweet  bird-call  echoed  in  the  air. 

"  Can  you  not  think,  my  child,  that  the  Hand 
that  wrought  this  splendor  —  that  gave  the  gift 
to  you  —  can  heal  all  hurts  ?  "  he  questioned. 

She  leaned  forward  suddenly,  her  elbows  on  the 
low  arm  of  her  chair,  her  hands  clasped  tightly. 
How  white  they  were,  he  thought,  against  the  color 
of  her  dress. 

"  Yes  —  yes  —  but  a  broken  law  —  laws  of 
health  —  of  honor  —  and  of  truth !  "  Her  voice 
sank  to  a  whisper. 

"If  a  child  consciously  puts  his  hand  in  the 
flame,  does  he  not  know  he  will  be  burned?  If 
he  does  not  learn  the  lesson  in  an  easier  way  he 
will  be  forced  to  by  that  experience.  But  is  the 
healing  withheld?  Men  of  science  will  call  it  the 
recuperating  power  of  youth,  of  nature.  I  call  it 
God.  It  does  not  really  matter.  Are  not  youth 
and  nature  but  a  part  of  the  Great  Force  ?  " 

'  Yes  —  yes  —  but  when  the  hurt  —  the  broken 
laws  —  touch  other  lives  ?  " 

413 


"  There  is  nothing  in  this  world  —  in  any  world 
of  space  —  my  child,  beyond  the  touch  of  the  Com- 
passionate Ones,  beyond  the  ken  of  the  Vast  Om- 
niscience. From  chaos  is  brought  order  —  from 
disorder,  harmony;  on  the  wrecks  of  civilizations 
and  empires  are  reared  others  —  each  with  their 
own  beauties,  their  lessons  of  experience,  their 
records  of  immortal  truths  —  of  mortal  sins. 
From  the  revolutions  —  civic  and  religious  —  are 
wrought  the  involutions  of  progression  and  of 
peace  — '  He  paused  for  a  moment  and  for  a  mo- 
ment it  seemed  to  Cecile  he  had  forgotten  her. 
Then  his  eyes  came  back  to  her  face. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  "  as  it  is  with  worlds  it  is 
with  men.  All  things  work  together  for  good. 
The  Eternal  Good  of  all  would  have  us  know  that. 
Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  the  wonder  of  a  flower's 
progression  toward  the  light  and  sun  —  the  hidden 
darkness  —  the  struggle  to  take  root  ?  Some  one 
once  said  we  are  in  the  School  of  the  Infinite,  and 
the  Teacher's  lessons  are  according  to  the  meas- 
ure of  our  understanding.  There  are  some  souls 
in  the  great  School  that  have  never  learned  the 
lesson  of  pity.  They  learn  it  some  day  when  they 
go  to  America  and  watch  much  of  its  vast  com- 
merce upheld  by  the  feeble  labor  of  dying  children. 
Blair  Martin  has  seen  the  children.  She  has 
watched  others  learn  the  lesson,  and  gone  up  to  a 
higher  class.  There  are  others  who  have  failed 
in  knowing  justice.  Hector  has  told  you  of  them. 
And  so  it  is  with  all  things  —  truth  and  honor 

414 


THE   SANCTUARY 


and  true  love  —  they  are  all  branches  in  the 
School.  And  we  can  never  learn  a  lesson  that  we 
do  not  need.  If  you  have  hurt  another,  that  other 
needs  that  lesson  as  much  as  you,  although  the 
results  on  each  will  be  different.  It  is  the  Law  of 
Cause,  the  Law  of  Effect  —  the  one  Eternal  Law 
of  Justice  and  of  Tenderest  Love.  There  are  many 
ways  of  looking  at  it  —  it  goes  by  many  names. 
In  India  men  call  it  Karma;  in  Arabia,  Kismet; 
in  Europe,  men  of  science,  Natural  Law,  and  I  — 
I  —  "  he  broke  off.  The  light  of  the  coming  sun- 
set was  upon  his  face.  "  I,  here,  in  your  Island 
of  the  Angels  —  again  —  I  call  it  God." 

He  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  and  raised  his 
face  toward  the  glowing  sky.  By  and  by  shadows 
appeared  and  were  reflected  on  the  grass  and 
through  the  trees  —  faint  shadows,  the  first  entry 
by  Night  into  her  book  of  Time.  A  hundred  bird 
voices  broke  the  stillness  with  their  evening  song. 

"  Cecile  —  all  scholars  in  the  same  great  School, 
in  different  grades.  And,  my  Little  One,  all  of 
one  family  —  all  of  us  —  everywhere,  who  at  night 
return  to  the  Heart  of  the  One  Father." 

He  stopped,  and  Cecile  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
white  and  still.  The  pale  oval  of  her  face  showed 
out  against  the  trees.  For  a  minute  she  rested  so, 
as  though  gathering  strength;  then  she  leaned  for- 
ward and  looked  him  in  the  face.  Years  ago,  as 
a  youth  in  the  Soudan,  he  had  seen  a  man  look  so 
as  he  went  into  action. 

"  Toward  the  end,  Father,  I   fancy  we  see  all 

415 


THE   SANCTUARY 


things  clearly  —  like  this  sunset  lighting  up  this 
day  before  it  goes  to  rest.  Toward  —  the  —  end  !  " 

He  did  not  answer,  knowing  that  his  time  for 
speech  was  past.  He  waited. 

"  Toward  the  end,  all  things  are  made  plain  — 
all  the  wrongs  and  sufferings  —  all  the  loves.  It 
has  only  been  the  hurt  to  others  that  has  remained, 
and  that,  too,  is  passing  since  your  words,"  she 
smiled. 

"  It  is  of  the  hurt  to  others  that  I  want  to  speak," 
she  corrected  herself  hastily,  "  that  I  must  speak. 
I  have  been  months  coming  to  it,  Father.  Yet  of 
late  truth  has  seemed  to  be  more  prized  than  your 
regard.  Have  you  ever  thought  all  that  your  re- 
gard has  been  —  has  meant  in  my  darkened  life?  " 

He  looked  at  her  with  eyes  of  tenderest  affection 
and  he  leaned  over  and  took  her  hand  and  held 
it  in  a  strong,  firm  grasp.  The  pressure  helped  her. 

"  Cecile,"  he  said,  "  my  Little  One." 

"  There  is  more  light  now  than  darkness,"  she 
said,  "  indeed  more  light  than  I  have  ever  known 
except  when  I  was  a  very  little  child,  and  one  other 
time,  Father,  —  can  you  guess  when  ?  " 

"  When  Hector  Stone  came  into  your  life,"  he 
said. 

"  Yes  ;  but  even  that  was  not  all  joy  —  except 
that  first  wild  dream  of  happiness  when  I  forgot 
—  forgot  what  I  remembered  afterwards  —  the 
shadow  of  the  curse." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  and  Pierre  Lamore 
did  not  urge  her  by  question  or  by  look.  He 

416 


*ft  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

stroked  the  hand  he  held  as  he  had  once  stroked  a 
wounded  yearling  he  had  found  amidst  the  crags. 

"  I  knew  of  it,  like  many  of  my  people  before 
me.  I  can  offer  no  excuse.  I  do  not  want  to  offer 
any.  When  one  is  near  the  end  —  or  is  it  the 
beginning  —  "  she  broke  off  again.  She  was  tired 
but  she  must  go  on. 

"  I  was  told  after  the  first  flush  of  girlhood.  My 
uncle,  my  only  living  relative,  hinted  at  it  —  before 
he  died  of  madness,  —  but  he  left  the  full  truth  to 
you.  You  remember,  Father?" 

Did  he  remember! 

He  bowed  his  head  in  assent. 

"  After  all  you  were  in  truth  the  only  father  that 
I  ever  knew.  My  uncle  tried  to  be  kind  —  but  he 
really  never  understood  me,  and  —  and,  Father  — 
Hector  never  understood  me  fully,  either." 

Pierre  Lamore  continued  to  stroke  the  hand,  and 
his  own  trembled.  He  was  acutely  conscious  of 
the  pain  caused  him  by  the  quiet  voice  —  by  that 
broken  cry. 

"  Even  in  those  days  his  thoughts,  his  aims,  his 
ambitions  were  different  from  my  own.  I  dimly 
felt  it  even  then,  but  I  did  not  care.  I  only  knew 
I  loved  him.  .  .  .  Sometimes  when  sitting  here  I 
have  looked  down  to  the  valley  and  seen  the  vine- 
yards lying  warm  and  still,  and  I  have  watched  a 
lark  soar  upwards,  leaving  it  behind.  The  valley 
could  not  hold  it,  longing  for  the  light  and  for  the 
upper  air.  And  I  have  thought  that  it  was  a  symbol 
of  our  lives  —  of  Hector  Stone's  and  mine.  The 

417 


THE   SANCTUARY 


valley  needed  nothing  more,  but  the  lark  —  who 
could  blame  the  lark,  pulsing,  soaring  toward  the 
light!" 

She  stopped  and  seemed  to  have  forgotten  him 
in  revery.  Her  eyes  came  back  to  Pierre  Lamore's 
face  as  he  begun  to  speak. 

"  Cecile,  neither  can  one  blame  the  valley.  It 
yielded  beauty,  fruitfulness  and  peace,  even  if  the 
crops  sometimes  —  failed,  my  child.  It  has  been 
said  that  we  need  the  brooding  stillness  of  the  hills 
as  well  as  the  restlessness  of  the  great  ocean.  The 
two  together  should  form  the  completed  picture  — 
a  man's  ambitions  should  be  balanced  by  a  woman's 
calm,  and  the  two  should  make  but  harmony  —  a 
perfect  whole.  It  was  not  that,  Cecile,  that 
wrought  havoc  in  your  lives.  There  were  some 
essentials  lacking." 

"  How  well  you  have  understood  and  read  our 
lives,  yet,  Father,  you  have  not  read  —  all." 

She  leaned  forward  in  her  chair  again,  and  the 
work  that  had  been  lying  idle  in  her  lap  slipped  to 
the  ground,  unnoticed  by  them  both.  It  lay  there 
a  spot  of  clearest  white  in  the  deepening  shadows 
of  the  trees. 

The  eyes  of  Pierre  Lamore  were  fixed  on  her, 
half  yearningly,  half  commandingly.  He  shaded 
them  lest  she  should  notice  his  emotion,  but  her  own 
saw  nothing.  They  were  cast  down. 

"  That  is  true,"  she  said,  and  her  quiet  voice  took 
on  a  new  odd  strength,  "  the  essentials  were  lack- 
ing. Hector  never  loved  me  as  —  he  might  —  as 

418 


THE   SANCTUARY 


Hector  Stone  can  love.  And  I  —  I  —  loved  him 
far  too  well.  I  loved  him  better  than  I  loved  truth 
or  honor.  I  allowed  him  to  marry  me  —  not  know- 
ing." 

She  flung  her  arms  across  the  arm  of  her  chair, 
and  pressed  her  face  against  them  with  a  terrible 
cry. 

"  I  have  always  known  it." 

She  raised  a  white,  strained  face  to  his. 

"  You  —  have  —  known  —  always  ?     How  ?  " 

"  Hector  never  told.  He  is  far  too  great  a  soul 
for  that.  But  there  was  much  that  did  tell  me  — 
principally  yourself.  Did  you  dream,  Cecile,"  his 
voice  was  full  of  deepest  tenderness,  "  that  I,  who 
have  known  you  all  your  life,  could  be  deceived? 
Did  you  not  go  and  meet  Hector  Stone  in  Mar- 
seilles and  marry  there,  knowing  I  would  have  for- 
bidden the  sin  of  deceit  although  it  broke  your 
heart?  Better  broken  hearts  than  broken  honor 
or  —  blighted  children's  lives!"  Pierre  Lamore 
looked  toward  St.  Michael's,  and  unseen  by  her, 
his  face  changed  swiftly.  For  one  brief  instant 
he  saw  the  chateau  gardens  as  he  had  known  them 
as  a  boy,  walking  there  with  Clarisse.  .  .  . 

She  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair  now,  the 
tense  emotion  passed.  "I  —  might  —  have  — 
known  —  you  —  always  —  knew,"  she  murmured. 

"  And  you  were  afraid  to  trust  me,"  said  Pierre 
Lamore.  "  For  years  you  have  eaten  out  your  heart 
without  laying  your  secret  before  me.  For  years 
I  have  waited  for  this  hour." 

4TQ 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"Why?"  she  said.  "Why  did  you  not  let  me 
know  —  you  knew  ?  " 

"  No  man  —  no  one  —  not  even  the  Most  High," 
said  Pierre  Lamore  reverently,  "  has  the  right  to 
tear  aside  the  covering  from  a  sacred  wound,  until 
the  stricken  heart  brings  it  for  healing  and  for 
help." 

"  Do  you  know  all  the  rest,  too,  Father  ?  How 
when  —  before  the  child  came,  I  —  I  was  threat- 
ened with  the  shadow  of.  my  people's  sin,  and  how 
in  terror  I  confessed  to  Hector?  Ah,  you  may 
have  guessed  at  it,  but  you  never  saw  the  look  of 
loathing  and  contempt  I  read  for  an  instant  on  his 
face.  I  saw  it,  and  the  horror  of  it  caused  the 
shadow  to  mercifully  blot  out  all  for  a  little  while 
—  and  when  a  month  later  I  awoke  to  clear  reason 
again  —  I  awoke  to  the  knowledge  that  he  was  still 
with  me,  nursing  me  and  surrounding  me  with  the 
tenderest  care,  but  the  look  —  I  never  forgot." 
She  paused  a  moment  and  looked  down  at  her  hands 
in  her  lap.  Her  voice,  that  had  been  speaking 
rapidly,  became  slower  and  more  calm. 

"  He  never  knew  the  hours  I  watched  his  every 
tone  and  look,  nor  the  hours  when  I  listened  to  him 
talking  in  his  sleep.  Once  in  his  sleep  he  cursed 
the  child  and  —  me. 

"  I  used  to  pray  that  the  child  would  be  born 
dead  —  or  if  living,  die  the  first  day  of  its  life, 
and  while  he  never  said  it  —  while  he  gave  me  all 
that  wealth  and  care  could  give,  I  knew,  in  his  saner, 
waking  moments,  he  prayed  so  too.  .  .  .  You  re- 

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member  I  came  back  here,  and  by  and  by  the  boy 
was  born,  and  he  lived.  I  used  to  watch  him  day 
by  day,  searching  for  the  faintest  shade  of  the 
shadow  on  his  face.  Ah!  do  you  know  what  the 
watching  for  that  shadow  meant!  And  as  I  grew 
stronger,  I  grew  to  need  him  —  as  I  had  never 
needed  in  my  life  before,  and  I  prayed  that  he  might 
live.  Was  it  selfish,  Father?" 

He  did  not  answer  and  she  did  not  seem  to  expect 
him  to  do  so. 

"  And  as  time  went  on  and  he  saw  how  much 
the  child  had  grown  to  be  to  me,  Hector  left  us 
more  and  more  alone  together,  and  I  think  it  was 
a  relief  to  him.  It  was  about  this  time  that  he 
began  planning  for  his  great  work  in  America,  but 
I  used  to  see  him  sometimes  watching  the  child,  and 
I  knew  his  brightness  and  his  health  reassured  him. 
His  work  took  much  of  his  time  —  his  attention  — 
I  made  my  headquarters  in  Italy  that  I  might  be 
nearer  him  in  his  comings  and  his  goings  —  but  he 
never  by  a  look  or  word  neglected  me  —  you  under- 
stand that  ?  " 

"  It  would  not  have  been  Hector  Stone  if  he 
had,"  said  Pierre  Lamore  quickly. 

Cecile  smiled  a  little. 

"  Good  Father  —  always  so  to  understand!  " 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

'  Then  he  made  his  two  months'  trip  to  America 
and  I  came  here  —  " 

The  sunset  changed  from  deepest  rose  to  gold. 
One  by  one  the  birds  were  going  to  their  rest. 

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"  And  then  the  baby  died.  ...  I  have  grown 
to  be  thankful,  Father,  for  that,  too." 

From  gold  the  sunset  melted  into  silver  —  into 
gray.  A  faint  breeze  from  the  sea  stirred  the 
branches  of  the  trees. 

"  Then,  the  long  night  of  horror  settled  down 
again  —  those  years  in  Montreal  —  seven  years, 
Father.  Seven  years !  " 

After  a  while  she  went  on. 

"  When  I  awoke  —  I  awoke  to  a  horror  more 
terrible  still  —  to  the  knowledge  that  I  had  only 
found  Hector  again  to  lose  him.  I  came  home  then 
to  St.  Michael's  and  to  you." 

"  And  in  all  these  months,  Cecile  —  in  all  this 
time  —  you  have  sought  neither  my  poor  help  nor 
the  greater  help  of  the  Sanctuary." 

"  I  went  to  St.  Michael's  once,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "  alone  —  last  Christmas  Day.  And  I  un- 
locked the  door  with  the  key  that  you  sent  to  Hec- 
tor's care  when  the  chapel  was  finished.  He  brought 
it  to  me  —  to  Montreal  —  and  I  dimly  remember 
his  putting  it  on  a  gold  chain  around  my  neck  and 
bidding  the  Mother  Superior  to  let  it  stay  there. 
It  was  one  of  the  few  things  I  brought  with  me 
on  my  return." 

"Did  you  not  find  peace  and  comfort  there?" 
Lamore  asked.  A  strange  smile  was  on  his  face. 

She  covered  her  face  impulsively  with  her  hands. 

"  I  could  not  bear  it,  Father.  It  was  the  first 
time  I  had  ever  been  inside  and  yet  I  could  not  bear 
it.  I  did  not  even  see  clearly  the  window  to  the 

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child  —  over  the  high  altar.     I  only  saw  the  golden 
cross  upon  the  Sanctuary  door.   ...  I  came  away." 

The  strange  smile  faded  i  from  Pierre  Lamore's 
face. 

"  I  understand,  so  much  better  than  you  dream. 
.  .  .  Next  week,  my  child,  is  the  feast  of  the  great 
Michael  —  will  you  come  again,  Cecile,  and  listen 
to  the  'Mass,  and  take  with  me  the  Eucharist 
Bread?" 

Her  mouth  quivered  a  little. 

"  It  is  years  since  I  have  eaten  of  the  Food,"  she 
said. 

"  I  know." 

"  My  sins  —  and  they  are  many  —  a  man's 
wrecked  happiness,  another  woman's  heart,  my 
honor  —  and  my  truth  —  when  I  come  to  you 
again,  will  you  absolve  me  ?  " 

Pierre  Lamore's  face  was  grave. 

"  My  child,  there  is  no  shipwreck  possible  for  a 
life  like  Hector  Stone's  —  no  real  blow  for  a  soul 
like  Blair  Martin's.  And  the  child  —  have  you  ever 
thought,  Cecile,  all  that  those  few  brief  years 
meant,  the  lesson  that  they  brought  —  the  glory 
that  they  left?"  He  raised  his  eyes  and  looked 
toward  St.  Michael's.  One  lingering  cloud  of  gold 
and  gray  rested  in  the  heavens  behind  the  cross. 
As  they  watched,  the  beacon  light  was  lit,  and  hung 
there  high  up  on  the  cliff  to  guide  the  fishers  on  the 
sea. 

'  Your    own    mistakes  —  your    sins    perhaps  — 
have  been  your  own  to  bring  to  God.     While  it  is 

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His  law  that  we  must  bear  the  consequences  of 
our  acts,  has  He  ever  withheld  His  mercy  or  His 
love?  Cecile,  did  you  ever,  while  he  himself  bore 
the  pain  of  his  own  small  hurts,  cease  to  console 
your  child?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  So  are  our  sins  in  the  eyes  of  the  Most  High. 
All  mistakes  —  all  sins  —  are  to  be  counted  gain 
that  brings  a  soul  to  the  consciousness  of  God." 

She  rose  from  her  chair  and  began  to  walk  up 
and  down  slowly  on  the  terrace.  With  a  quick 
deference  he  followed  her  example. 

"  Sit  down,  Father,  —  there,  do  not  cross  me 
to-night.  Are  you  not  double  my  age  —  are  you 
not  tired  with  a  long  day  of  service  among  our 
people  ?  Let  me  walk  here  a  little  —  I  who  have 
nothing  to  do  now,  yet  who  grow  so  tired.  Some- 
times I  am  restless  with  sitting  still  so  long.  There 
is  something  else  I  have  to  tell  you,  but  it  is  grow- 
ing late.  Can  you  spare  me  the  time  ?  " 

"  I  am  at  your  service  always." 

"  I  am  sure  of  that,  and  after  all  the  nights  are 
mild  —  mild  as  only  the  nights  in  southern  France 
can  be,"  she  smiled  a  little  wistfully.  For  a  while 
she  was  silent,  and  once  as  he  watched  her  in  her 
slow  walk  he  saw  her  press  her  right  hand  to  her 
breast  in  agitation. 

"  Speak,  Cecile." 

The  words  were  fraught  with  infinite  pity,  yet 
they  came  to  her  as  a  command. 

She  turned  on  him  abruptly. 

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"  I  will,"  she  said,  and  the  indecision  and  agita- 
tion fell  from  her  like  a  cloak.  "  It  is  about  Blair 
Martin." 

Lamore's  eyes  did  not  leave  her  face. 

"Yes?"  he  said. 

"  I  knew  her  from  the  first  —  from  that  first 
meeting  in  the  chateau  garden  —  as  the  woman 
who  had  come  into  Hector's  life  and  mine.  Do 
you  want  to  know  how?  I  am  not  sure  if  it  was 
wholly  instinct  or  if  I  partly  guessed  from  the 
French  extract  that  she  always  uses.  It  is  very 
rare  —  and  once  smelt  never  forgotten.  The  white 
glove  I  found  near  Hector's  trunk  was  permeated 
with  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lamore  again. 

"  Well  —  Father,  it  was  the  old,  old  story  of 
the  Grandcceurs.  At  first  she  interested  me.  Then 
•  —  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  kill  her  —  "  the 
Comtesse  broke  off. 

Lamore  waited. 

"  But  we  do  not  kill  in  these  days  as  in  the  time 
of  the  old  Count  of  the  Crusades.  I  am  not  ex- 
actly sure  why  I  asked  you  to  bring  her  here  — 
perhaps  to  study  her  at  leisure;  perhaps  later  little 
by  little,  with  maddening  cruelty,  to  tell  her  who 
I  was.  I  do  not  think  I  ever  meant  her  physical 
harm  of  any  kind  —  that  is  so  crude  a  torture.  But 
I  meant  to  hurt  her  —  soul  and  heart  —  I  meant  to 
watch  her  writhe  —  " 

She  stopped  in  her  walk  and  stood  quite  still  in 
front  of  Lamore,  and  there  was  nothing  in  her 

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voice  or  in  her  manner  that  asked  for  the  quarter 
of  his  mercy.  Now  —  as  it  would  be  until  the  end 
—  the  sign  and  the  seal  of  the  Grandcoeurs  was  on 
her. 

"Why  did  you  hesitate?"  Lamore  asked  after 
a  while. 

The  Comtesse's  eyes,  dark  and  wistful,  met  his 
own. 

"  Because  of  a  little  peasant  boy,"  she  answered, 
and  Lamore  did  not  ask  to  know  more. 

The  Comtesse  seated  herself  again  in  her  garden 
chair  and  leaned  forward,  looking  up  into  Lamore's 
face. 

"  Then  —  because  of  that  little  child  —  I  later 
grew  to  love  her  and  to  need  her  in  my  life.  But 
I  could  not  live  the  treachery  or  give  her  the  lie  — 
we  may  be  sin-stained,  cursed,  but  we  are  not 
all  bad  —  I  wanted  the  friendship  to  be  built  on 
honor  and  on  truth,  so  I  took  my  chances  and  — 
failed!  The  night  Hector  came  and  I  sent  him 
away,  I  told  her.  She  did  not  speak  until  I  had 
quite  finished  and  then  —  as  years  ago  Hector  had 
looked  at  me  in  loathing  —  she  looked,  too.  She 
said  but  little.  The  next  morning  she  left  for  the 
Schynige-Plarre." 

"  She  forgave  you  long  ago  —  as  long  ago  Hec- 
tor forgave." 

"  There  is  little  more  to  tell  you  except  that  Hec- 
tor is  coming  back.  It  was  my  fancy  that  Blair 
Martin  should  write  the  letter  to  him  from  me,  since 
writing  tires  me  so  and  because  it  was  through  her 

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I  found  my  need  for  him  again."  The  Comtesse 
played  with  the  soft  silk  fringe  that  trimmed  her 
dress.  She  smiled  a  little.  It  seemed  to  Lamore 
that  her  manner  and  her  voice  was  more  buoyant 
than  he  could  remember  it  in  years.  She  had  asked 
no  comment  from  him  and  he  never  dreamed  of 
making  any.  After  a  while  she  spoke  again. 

"  Then  about  St.  Michael's.  I  have  a  favor  to 
ask  you  for  St.  Michael's." 

"  St.  Michael's  —  like  the  Island  and  the  chateau 
—  is  yours,  Cecile." 

"  Have  you  ever  "thought,"  she  said  at  last, 
"  what  will  become  of  the  Island  of  the  Angels  — 
of  the  chateau  —  of  the  little  village  church  —  of 
St.  Michael's  —  after  I  am  gone?" 

"  I  have  sometimes  thought  but  I  have  never 
found  the  answer.  Perhaps  they  will  pass  to 
Hector  Stone?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Hector  does  not  need  the  Island,  neither  does 
he  love  it  as  I  do.  His  remembrances  of  the  place 
are  mostly  very  sad.  His  work  calls  him  to  his 
own  country  —  to  America." 

For  an  instant  Blair  Martin's  face  came  before 
Lamore.  As  though  divining  his  thoughts  she 
looked  up  quickly. 

"  Blair  Martin  does  not  need  the  Island  of  the 
Angels  —  "  she  hesitated  a  brief  moment  —  "  any 
more  than  Hector  does." 

"Who  then,  Cecile?" 

She  leaned  forward  and  stretched  out  her  hand 

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until  it  rested  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  In  the  grow- 
ing darkness  her  face  showed  white  and  smiling. 

"  Who  needs  it  more  than  —  you  ?  " 

He  started,  a  troubled  surprise  on  his  face, 

"  You  cannot  mean  it,  child,  —  you  —  "  he  broke 
off  suddenly. 

"  I  am  quite  myself,  Father." 

The  simple  dignity  of  the  words  touched  him 
strangely. 

"  Cecile  —  you  must  know  that  when  I  took 
orders  I  retained  nothing  for  myself  —  that  I  never 
can  hold  possessions.  I  gave  over  my  Russian  in- 
heritance to  my  younger  sister  Servia,  for  her  son. 
What  should  I  do  with  the  Island  of  the  Angels  ?  " 

"  Keep  it  in  trust  —  as  you  have  in  reality  done 
all  these  years  —  for  all  that  come  after,  and  in 
memory  of  the  last  of  the  race  and  line  —  in  mem- 
ory of  the  child." 

"  I  do  not  understand."  The  lips  of  Pierre  La- 
more  were  hard  and  dry.  He  spoke  with  difficulty. 

"  Then  I  must  make  it  plain.  It  is  all  in  the  will 
that  the  lawyer  made  last  week.  When  —  it  is 
over  —  he  will  come  here  from  Marseilles.  I  have 
left  the  Island  and  all  that  it  contains  or  yields  to 
you,  with  a  few  exceptions.  The  suggestions  on 
a  written  memorandum,  to  be  handed  you,  are  sug- 
gestions only.  You  may  have  a  better  plan  —  see 
wider  needs." 

She  broke  off  again,  and  he  waited  in  a  tense 
silence  for  her  to  resume. 

"  I  have  directed  that  a  certain  sum  be  laid  aside 

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in  case  Blair  Martin  ever  marries  —  for  her  eldest 
child  —  to  be  given  it  on  its  wedding  day,  as  a 
gift  from  me."  The  voice  was  low  and  even. 
"  Then  there  are  legacies  —  one  for  the  Hotel  des 
Invalides  at  Montreal;  one  for  Fauchet;  another 
for  the  education  of  the  boy  Anthony  and  for  all 
the  old  servants  —  enough  to  keep  them  in  simple 
comfort  for  life." 

She  broke  off  an  instant  and  looked  around  the 
chateau  garden,  up  to  the  beautiful  home  itself  — 
then  across  to  St.  Michael's,  looming  white  and  still 
against  the  late  twilight  sky. 

"  Once  at  Christmas  you  are  to  take  the  village 
children  —  all  the  children  —  there,  and  say  a  Mass 
for  the  child.  And  again  at  Easter,  the  children 
are  to  go  there  with  you  and  say  a  Mass  —  for  me. 
For  the  rest  of  the  year  St.  Michael's  is  to  be  a 
place  apart,  and  in  the  future,  as  it  has  been  in  the 
past,  only  those  you  or  the  Great  Cardinal  wish  to 
take  there  are  to  enter  —  except  the  children.  It 
must  be  always  open  to  the  children.  Your  suc- 
cessor is  to  be  named  by  —  you.  Sometimes  I  have 
fancied  that  it  will  be  the  boy  Anthony,  with  his 
strange  likeness  to  my  own.  And  your  successor 
is  to  name  his  successor,  and  so  on  down  the  years, 
while  the  Island  of  the  Angels  and  St.  Michael's 
stand.  .  .  .  Then  there  is  the  chateau,  the  home  of 
my  people  —  my  poor  people  —  I  have  left  that  to 
you  to  do  with  as  you  will.  In  case  you  are  troub- 
led —  I  would  not  have  you  troubled  —  I  have  left 
a  suggestion  in  regard  to  it.  I  have  thought  that 

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instead  of  being  the  home  of  one  boy,  it  might  be 
made  into  the  home  for  many  boys.  You  and  the 
Cardinal,  with  his  great  heart  yearning  over  the 
needs  of  humanity,  would  know  where  to  find  them. 
You  would  see  that  they  have  the  freedom  of  the 
garden  —  the  benefits  that  true  beauty  and  true  cul- 
ture gives.  You  would  see  that,  without  thought 
of  faith  or  creed,  there  were  only  gathered  here, 
the  most  homeless,  the  most  forsaken,  of  the  Mas- 
ter's little  ones." 

Pierre  Lamore  suddenly  rose  to  his  feet.  He 
stretched  his  arms  upwards  and  turned  his  face  to 
the  stars. 

"  Lord  —  Lord  —  what  have  I  done  for  this!  " 

An  hour  later  he  turned  to  go.  He  took  Cecile's 
hand  in  his. 

"It  is  well,  my  child?" 

Through  the  increasing  darkness  he  could  see  her 
smile. 

"  Father  —  it  is  well." 


430 


XVI. 

A  MONTH  later  Fauchet's  new  tug  stopped  at 
the  Island  wharf  and  deposited  one  pas- 
senger, and  Continental  trunks  that  showed 
signs  of  much  travel. 

Blair  Martin,  standing  amidst  her  own  baggage, 
saw  him  descend  the  gangway,  for  a  moment  her- 
self unseen.  She  noticed  how  grave  and  troubled 
was  his  face,  how  slow  his  walk  since  those  far 
off  settlement  days  —  since  the  night  by  the  mi- 
mosa. Had  they  really  existed  after  all,  she 
wondered.  Had  all  the  work  together,  all  the 
suffering  they  had  seen  and  shared,  all  those  mo- 
ments of  that  summer  night,  come  to  this  —  a 
formal  meeting  on  a  little  wharf  far  off  in  France? 
She  began  to  tremble  and  the  smile  that  came  into 
her  face  when  she  saw  him  raise  his  head  and  look 
in  her  direction,  was  forced  and  different  from  any 
he  had  ever  seen  upon  her  face  before. 

He  came  forward  with  hand  outstretched. 

"  You  must  have  been  hidden  behind  all  the 
trunks,"  he  said,  "  or  just  arrived.  I  searched  the 
wharf  on  our  approach  to  see  —  if  any  one  was 
here." 

"  I  was  a  little  late,"  she  admitted,  "  there  were 
many  last  things  to  see  to  —  to  tell  the  good  Sister 
that  arrived  this  morning,  to  help  you  with  the 

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nursing.  Father  Lamore  planned  to  meet  you,  but 
I  suppose  some  sudden  need  for  him  arose.  He  is 
always  busy  doing  good." 

"  I  sent  him  a  cable  from  California  two  weeks 
ago  ;  another  from  Marseilles  —  there  was  a  delay 
in  your  letter.  Blair  —  I  came  at  once." 

"  I  knew  you  would,"  she  said. 

"Cecile?" 

Blair  Martin  hesitated. 

"  A  little  stronger  perhaps.  She  has  seemed  to 
gain  a  little  lately.  I  left  her  asleep.  She  was  very 
tired.  All  night  she  sat  by  the  window  watching 
for  the  tug." 

"  I  am  only  an  hour  late.  I  was  not  due  until 
one  this  afternoon." 

"  I  know.  But  your  cables  were  delayed  in  com- 
ing from  the  mainland,  by  bad  weather.  They  only 
arrived  last  night,  and  Father  Lamore  brought 
them  up  at  once  and  told  her.  I  think  up  to  then 
she  was  not  certain  if  you  would  come  or  not. 
After  that  she  could  not  sleep.  You  will  tell  her 
when  you  see  her  that  I  left  a  note  with  the  nurse 
—  that  I  did  not  want  to  waken  her  to  say 
good-bye?  " 

"Good-bye!  You  are  going  to  leave  Cecile?" 
he  said  suddenly.  "  These  trunks  are  yours  ?  " 

"  Mine,  and  one  I  brought  for  Hannah  —  good 
Hannah.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  her  again.  She 
is  to  join  me  -  —  later." 

"Where  are  you  going,  Blair  —  -and  why?" 

She  met  his  eyes  quite  steadily. 

432 


THE   SANCTUARY 


"  I  have  left  my  address  at  the  Rectory.  If  Cecile 
needs  and  wants  me,  Father  Lamore  will  send  me 
word.  Cecile  will  not  need  or  want  me  now."  She 
smiled. 

The  autumn  sun  poured  down  upon  them  warm 
and  bright.  Two  of  the  chateau  servants  had 
stowed  her  luggage  safely  on  board  and  were  look- 
ing questioningly  from  the  pilot  to  Blair  Martin, 
as  though  uncertain  what  to  do.  The  tug  —  the 
pride  of  Fauchet's  heart  and  a  gift  from  the  Com- 
tesse  —  rocked  at  her  moorings.  Fauchet  lighted 
a  pipe  and  lazily  watched  them  from  the  window  of 
his  diminutive  pilot  house.  Did  they  not  seem  glad 
to  see  each  other  in  spite  of  their  grave  faces? 
Did  they  not  both  love  the  Comtesse  —  as  did 
everybody?  Were  they  not  both  loved  by  her? 
Well,  one  could  wait  their  pleasure  for  her  sake 
and  think  of  the  sweetheart  far  away  in  Avignon. 

"  I  fancy  the  Sister  that  is  to  '  help  '  me  will  not 
know  Cecile's  ways  like  you.  You  have  grown  to 
be  so  much  to  her.  I  could  tell  it  from  the  letter." 

"  Sister  Marie  Sebastian  will  soon  grow  to  know 
her  ways.  She  is  a  Bonne  Secours  —  trained  to 
her  work.  I  forgot  to  tell  her,  though,  about  the 
heated  milk  at  night.  Cecile  always  has  a  glass  at 
midnight  if  she  cannot  sleep.  Will  you  see  that  the 
nurse  remembers?" 

"  I  will  not  trouble  Sister  Marie  Sebastian  about 
the  milk.  Sometimes  I  may  need  her  help,  but  I 
have  come  myself  to  nurse  Cecile,"  said  Stone,  look- 
ing straight  into  Blair  Martin's  eyes. 

433 


*ft  THE    SANCTUARY  m 

Blair  Martin's  face  quivered  a  little  in  the  sun- 
light. 

"  I  knew  you  would,"  she  said  again,  but  softly, 
"  I  could  not  expect  less  from  the  man  I  -  ''  she 
broke  off,  a  slow  flush  mounting  to  her  face,  and 
she  looked  out  to  sea,  "  the  man  I  —  know  so  well," 
she  said. 

The  slow  flush  faded,  leaving  her  face  whiter 
than  before. 

"  I  have  never  expected  anything  of  you  —  I 
have  not  found,"  he  said  in  answer. 

She  lowered  her  face  quickly  that  he  might  not 
see  it  —  folded  her  hands  closely  together  that  he 
might  not  note  their  trembling. 

"  I  have  tried  to  do  right  —  oh,  Hector,  I  have 
tried.  But  the  way  has  not  been  always  easy  —  " 
she  broke  off. 

"Yes,  Blair?" 

"  But  of  late  —  since  I  have  returned  to  the 
Island  of  the  Angels,  to  Cecile,  I  have  learned  much, 
and  the  way  has  seemed  less  hard.  I  owe  Father 
Lamore  a  debt  for  many  things  —  and  not  the  least 
the  knowing  of  Cecile." 

"  She  has  taught  me,  too,"  said  Stone.  "  Some- 
times I  fancy  we  have  all  taught  each  other,  Blair. 
I  have  come  to  help  her  die  —  or  live." 

She  nodded.     She  could  not  speak. 

Fauchet,  noting  the  time,  and  remembering  the 
sailing  hour  from  Grenette,  blew  the  whistle  softly. 

'  There !  I  must  be  going  now.  See,  I  have  kept 
Fauchet  waiting.  My  baggage  must  have  been  on 

434 


THE   SANCTUARY 


board  ten  minutes."  She  stretched  out  her  hand. 
"  Good-bye,"  she  said. 

He  helped  her  up  the  gangway  and  watched  the 
little  tug  slowly  move  off  from  its  moorings  and 
slip  out  into  the  sunlit  waters.  From  the  deck  Blair 
Martin  waved  her  scarf  at  him.  He  was  all  she 
saw  —  or  all  she  thought  of  —  as  she  left  the 
Island  of  the  Angels. 

Then  distance  came  and  a  soft  mist  fell,  and 
slowly  Stone  turned  to  climb  the  chateau  hill. 


435 


XVII. 

AT  a  sharp  turn  in  the  steep  ascent  he  came 
suddenly  on  the  rectory  chaise  and  Nan- 
ette contentedly  nibbling  at  the  wayside 
grass.  Pierre  Lamore  sat  on  a  bit  of  rock  near  by, 
thoughtfully  looking  out  to  sea. 

"  So  this  is  the  way  you  meet  me  ?  "  said  Stone 
with  a  slow  smile. 

Pierre  Lamore  started  up  guiltily. 

"  My  dear  boy  —  I  —  " 

"  There,  there,  Father.  I  fancy  I  understand. 
It  was  like  you." 

"  Neither  you  nor  Blair  Martin  needed  me,  Hec- 
tor, just  now."  Pierre  Lamore  spoke  with  the 
simple  directness  of  a  child  —  the  momentary  con- 
fusion past. 

Stone  did  not  answer  and  looked  down  at  the 
little  mound  of  dirt  he  was  making  with  the  toe  of 
his  shoe. 

"  I  am  not  sure,  Father,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"  perhaps  you  know  us  better  than  we  know  our- 
selves." 

"  I  know  you  all  quite  well,"  said  Pierre  La- 
more.  "  It  is  part  of  my  profession,  Hector  —  to 
know  people  —  to  help  them  when  I  can.  But  there 
is  a  largeness  of  some  souls  where  over  watch  ful- 

436 


THE   SANCTUARY 


ness  is  an  impertinence  and  —  an  insult.  And  now, 
since  I  have  waited  patiently  and  so  long  —  and 
dismissed  the  chateau  car  sent  down  for  you  — 
will  you  not  let  me  drive  you  up  the  hill  ?  " 

"  Thanks  ;  I  see  the  old  chaise  is  as  comfortable 
as  ever.  What,  the  spring  has  at  last  been  fixed? 
That  is  good  news.  Has  Nanette  acquired  more 
speed  with  added  fat?  " 

"  You  will  hurt  Nanette's  feelings  talking  so," 
said  Pierre  Lamore,  his  big  laugh  echoing  through 
the  rocks  and  trees,  and  he  began  to  gather  the 
reins  together  and  undo  the  tangle  Nanette  had 
caused  grazing,  while  he  sat  by  unheeding.  In 
silence  Stone  watched  him  from  the  chaise,  too 
absorbed  in  thought  to  offer  to  help  him  at  his  task. 
He  could  not,  in  all  his  long  years  of  studying  men, 
remember  seeing  such  a  head  as  Pierre  Lamore's 
or  such  a  face  before.  Its  charm,  its  strength,  was 
as  intangible  as  its  owner's  personality  and  voice. 

His  musings  were  abruptly  terminated  as  Pierre 
Lamore  completed  his  task  and  with  a  sigh  of  sat- 
isfaction settled  himself  comfortably  beside  Hector 
on  the  front  seat  and  started  Nanette  slowly  on  her 
long  climb. 

"  This  is  better  than  walking,  is  it  not?  "  he  said 
cheerfully,  "  except  perhaps  for  Nanette." 

"  It  is  easier  certainly  —  if  no  faster,"  said  Stone 
with  a  laugh.  "  Nanette  looks  as  though  she  could 
stand  the  pace.  She  looks  neither  overworked  nor 
underfed.  I  wish  I  might  show  her  to  some  people 
I  know  in  America.  We  are  a  great  country,  Fa- 

437 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

ther,  but  we  forget  many  of  the  simple  humanities 
of  life,  because  of  misdirected  eagerness  and  haste." 

Pierre  Lamore  let  him  talk  on  —  knowing  that 
the  topics  of  his  work,  his  voyage,  was  helping  him 
to  recover  from  that  meeting  with  Blair  Martin, 
and  to  prepare  him  for  the  one  ahead. 

Slowly,  with  drooping  head  —  she  never  knew  a 
check  —  Nanette  pulled  her  burden  up  the  chateau 
hill,  and  her  master  with  slackened  reins  stared 
straight  between  her  ears  to  the  winding  road  open- 
ing out  before  them,  as  a  tangled  ball  of  worsted 
undoes  itself  at  last,  listening  — 

The  warm  afternoon  sun  lay  in  patches  across 
the  road  and  from  the  shadows  of  the  woods  to 
the  right  came  the  stir  and  chirping  of  the  birds. 
To  the  left,  through  the  trees  and  far  below  them 
as  they  ascended,  lay  the  shining  sea,  and  away  off, 
as  far  as  human  vision  could  distinguish,  the  outline 
of  the  Pyrenees. 

The  soft  lights  and  the  brooding  peace  of  nature 
after  a  while  penetrated  the  wall  of  talk  that  Stone 
had  built  around  himself  that  he  might  put  off 
thinking  for  a  little  while.  He  spoke  less  often  — 
his  voice  was  softer,  and  later  he  lapsed  into  silence 
altogether.  Pierre  Lamore  waited  for  him  to  break 
the  silence  as  he  had  waited  for  it  to  fall,  knowing 
that  by  and  by  the  readjustment  of  nerves  and  brain 
would  assert  itself  and  the  balance  would  hang  true. 

"  I  think  I  never  knew  before  how  beautiful  the 
Island  is,"  said  Stone,  at  last,  very  slowly. 

The  gaze  of  Pierre  Lamore  went  from  the  shaded 

438 


THE   SANCTUARY 


woods,  across  the  sunlit  winding  road  and  over  to 
the  left,  where,  through  a  vista,  shone  the  sea.  His 
clear  eyes  softened  as  he  looked. 

"  I  have  traveled  in  many  lands,"  he  answered, 
"  not  perhaps  as  many  as  you  have,  Hector,  but 
still  I  have  seen  much.  As  a  boy  in  the  army  I 
was  in  Africa,  and  later  I  went  to  Russia  for  a 
time  —  "  he  broke  off  a  moment  and  into  his  eyes 
stole  an  odd  look  of  remembrance,  "  and  then  my 
father  sent  me  to  Germany  and  Spain  and  other 
places  —  wanting  me  to  see  life  —  to  know  men  — 
before  I  gave  up  the  great  tracts  of  land  and  the 
titles  my  mother  left  me  near  St.  Petersburg  — 
before  I  decided  definitely  on  the  priesthood.  Five 
years  ago  I  went  to  your  country,  you  remember, 
for  a  convention  of  the  Church  —  it  is  a  great  coun- 
try, as  you  say,  Hector  —  a  wonderful  one  of 
promise  for  the  coming  race  —  but  there  is  nowhere 
—  no  place  like  the  Island  to  me.  There  never 
will  be." 

Unconsciously  he  had  let  the  reins  slacken  more 
and  more  as  he  had  talked,  and  he  looked  ahead 
of  him,  where  through  the  trees  the  white  stones 
of  St.  Michael's  stood  out  against  the  sky. 

"  I  suppose  none  of  us  can  really  judge  for 
another,"  said  Stone  after  a  while.  "  I  have  heard 
you  say  so  often  —  but  I  have  never  ceased  to  won- 
der at  your  spending  your  life  here.  While  in 
Rome  last  winter  I  met  Cardinal  Venusti  again  — 
once  I  dined  at  his  house  —  he  spoke  of  you.  He 
told  me  great  charges  had  been  offered  you  —  a 

439 


THE   SANCTUARY 


bishop's  see  —  that  would  have  meant  in  time  a 
cardinal's  hat.  .  .  .  And  that  you  refused  them 
all." 

A  slow  flush  crept  over  Pierre  Lamore's  face  as 
he  gathered  up  the  slackened  reins  with  a  quick 
movement. 

"  His  Eminence  is  kind  to  remember  me  so,"  he 
said  at  last  and  briefly. 

"  But,  Father,  was  he  not  right  ?  " 

Pierre  Lamore  carefully  flecked  a  fly  off  of  Nan- 
ette's back  with  the  lash  of  an  old  whip  never  used 
for  any  other  purpose. 

"  I  do  not  question  the  Cardinal's  words  —  for 
years  he  has  been  to  me  a  beacon  light  —  from  his 
point  of  view.  Had  I  received  directions  to  take 
a  charge  elsewhere,  I  should  have  gone  as  un- 
questioningly  as  a  soldier  who  receives  orders  from 
his  superiors,  but  always  they  have  left  the  deci- 
sion to  me,  and  I  —  I  have  acted  as  I  thought  for 
the  best.  It  has  not  been  from  a  selfish  point  of 
view  that  I  have  remained,  Hector  —  although  not 
even  you  would  dream  what  it  would  mean  to  me 
to  leave  the  Island  —  but  men  are  born  for  places 
as  they  are  born  for  their  life-work  —  and  no  one 
really  knows  that  better  than  the  Cardinal.  I  am 
not  fitted  for  his  place.  He  —  hardly  understands 
my  people  here.  And  who  shall  say  which  work 
is  the  least  in  the  sight  of  the  Most  High  ?  " 

"  But  your  birth,  your  breeding,  your  knowledge 
of  humanity  as  well  as  books  —  would  they  not 
have  done  more  good  elsewhere  ?  It  has  sometimes 

440 


seemed  to  me  a  lesser  man  could  have  done  the 
work  for  the  Island.  Has  not  your  light  been 
hidden?" 

"  Did  you  count  your  education,  your  wealth, 
your  leisure,  as  badly  spent  when  you  forsook  the 
comforts  and  the  rest  to  which  you  had  been  born? 
Who  needed  you  the  more,  Hector,  the  fashionable 
people  that  you  left  or  the  heart-broken,  weary, 
sweating  men  you  toiled  among?  " 

Stone  smiled. 

"  The  cases  are  hardly  on  a  par.  I  never  really 
sunk  my  position  in  the  world  of  men  —  I  still  en- 
joy my  millions.  But  you  —  you  refused  alike  your 
title  of  prince  in  the  world  and  prince  in  the  Church. 
Great  souls  as  yours  are  needed;  great  hearts  like 
yours  are  yearned  for  by  the  world  to  help  deliver 
it  from  despair  and  want  and  woe.  You  laid  down 
great  powers  —  renounced  great  influence.  Have 
you  gained  as  much  ?  " 

"  You  and  Duport!  Duport  and  you! "  said  the 
priest,  and  he  laughed  a  little.  Then  he  spoke  more 
seriously.  "  The  Great  Cardinal  is  the  Great  Car- 
dinal —  deep  in  wisdom  and  in  love  —  his  honors 
are  none  too  high  for  him.  He  is  also  a  great 
statesman.  One  half  of  Europe  knows  him  as  the 
Churchman;  the  other  only  blindly  feels  the  influ- 
ences in  the  world  of  men  of  which  he  is  the  primal 
force.  Do  you  fancy  that  my  work  is  there  with 
him  —  do  you  think  his  talents  best  for  Rome  or 
here  with  me  ?  As  for  the  titles  and  the  lands  — 
no,  no,  they  are  not  such  great  things  to  renounce 

441 


THE   SANCTUARY 


when  one  has  learned  to  renounce  more  —  and  my 
sister  Servia's  boy  bears  them  well.  He  is  only 
twenty-five.  I  am  very  proud  of  him.  Sometimes 
I  think  all  my  earthly  hopes  rest  on  him." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  had  any  earthly  hopes, 
Father,"  said  Stone  with  a  slow  smile. 

Lamore  looked  out  to  sea. 

"  Most  of  them  went  a  long,  long  time  ago,"  he 
said,  and  Stone  wondered  if  all  regrets  were  dead 
or  only  stilled. 

"  As  for  the  Island,"  Lamore's  voice  broke  the 
stillness,  "  it  has  not  always  yielded  as  I  wished. 
Is  any  one  in  any  work  ever  satisfied,  I  wonder? 
Sometimes  the  harvest  here  has  seemed  so  slight  — 
yielding  so  little  for  the  sowing.  It  has  been  one 
reason  why  I  stayed.  I  have  sowed  all  the  seeds 
I  had  —  my  learning  and  my  sympathy,  my  culture 
and  —  my  life.  .  .  .  Yet  when  I  have  seen  them 
most  forgotten,  when  I  have  been  the  most  dis- 
couraged, I  have  remembered  that  a  great  flame 
might  spread  from  a  very  little  lamp;  that  —  and 
I  say  it  in  all  reverence  —  the  teachings  of  my 
Master  spread  from  one  small  distant  spot  to  guide 
and  teach  the  world." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  in  which  Nanette  pulled 
more  slowly  at  the  traces  and  Lamore  let  the  reins 
fall  slack  again  to  give  her  greater  ease.  The  echo 
of  her  hoof-beats  in  rhythmic  time  came  to  them; 
the  low  crackle  of  dead  leaves  beneath  the  carriage 
wheels.  They  were  almost  at  the  top,  where  the 
clearing  was  to  be  seen,  and  a  breeze  from  the  sea 

442 


THE   SANCTUARY 


swept  past  them  with  a  delightful  sense  of  freedom 
and  of  strength.  Hector  dimly  felt  it  as  he  spoke. 

"  You  have  always  had  a  proportion  on  things 
most  men  lack.  I  think  it  was  one  of  the  first  things 
that  drew  you  to  me  —  that  and  Cecile's  devotion. 
Sometimes  I  think  no  one  understands  —  has  ever 
understood  Cecile  as  you  do.  I  have  come  to 
help  her,  Father,  if  I  can.  I  have  come  because  she 
sent  for  me.  Do  you  know  why  ?  " 

"  I  fancy,  my  son,  because  she  needed  you  — 
because  she  loved  you,"  said  Pierre  Lamore. 

"  I  am  not  sure.  At  least  I  did  not  question 
when  I  got  the  message.  I  am  here  to  help  her 
until  the  end  —  if  she  is  to  go.  Or  —  »  I  am  here 
to  help  her  live  —  to  make  a  new  beginning  with 
her.  I  do  not  ask  for  one  or  the  other  —  since  I 
do  not  know  which  is  best.  I  have  come  back  just 
to  make  her  happy  if  I  can." 

Pierre  Lamore  turned  in  the  chaise  and  faced 
him.  His  face  was  suddenly  illuminated. 

"  Once  long  ago  —  on  one  dark  night  in  your 
life,  Hector  —  I  told  you  that  one  day  you  would 
find  yourself  —  would  see  the  light  !  " 

"Is  it  the  light,  Father?  I  do  not  know.  I 
hardly  seem  to  care.  There  have  been  so  many 
days  of  struggle  —  hours  when  the  soul  was  sick 
to  death—  "  he  broke  off  and  bit  his  lip,  annoyed 
at  himself  for  speaking  so  even  to  Lamore. 

Lamore  noticed  the  sudden  break  —  divined  the 
cause,  and  with  a  quick  tact  said  : 

"  You  shall  come  with  me  and  I  will  play  the 

443 


THE   SANCTUARY 


organ  for  you  again.  There  is  nothing  like  music 
for  tired  nerves  like  yours." 

"  That  will  be  good  of  you.  It  is  a  long  time 
since  I  heard  you."  Then  :  "  Where  were  you 
taught  ?  " 

"  In  Leipsic  first,  later  in  Munich  and  Dresden 
and  Berlin.  Germany  can  teach  even  my  France 

—  even   Russia  —  indeed   the   world  —  in   music." 
Pierre  Lamore  smiled.     "  I  have  not  kept  it  up  as 
I  might  had  I  more  time  or  had  the  Island  had  a 
better  organ  than  the  little   one  we   have  in  the 
village  church,  but  now  —  "  he  paused. 

"  The  Cardinal  said  in  Rome  you  were  a  great 
master  at  the  art." 

"  Again  —  I  fear  the  Cardinal  is  prejudiced." 

"  I  have  understood  that  the  Cardinal  is  consid- 
ered a  great  Continental  critic  on  organ  music," 
said  Stone  with  a  short  laugh. 

"  Strange  as  it  seems,  I  have  only  played  three 
times  for  his  Eminence  —  the  last,  one  Ascension 
Day  years  ago  in  Rome." 

"  He  still  recalls  it.  He  said  you  had  an  organ 
there  worthy  of  your  skill." 

"  He  has  never  fully  heard  the  organ  in  St. 
Michael's.  It  is  considered  one  of  the  finest  in  all 
France.  You  shall  judge  yourself,  Hector,  of  the 
organ." 

"  You  —  are  —  going  —  to  —  take  —  me  —  to 

—  St.  Michael's?"  said  Hector  Stone  very  slowly. 
"  There  is  really  no  excuse  this  time  ?     You  know 
I  have  never  been  inside  since  it  was  completed." 

444 


Pierre  Lamore  smiled  strangely. 

"  Do  not  forget  that  you  helped  to  built  St. 
Michael's.  When  one  has  almost  reached  the  top 
of  the  long  hill  of  struggle  —  when  one  has  won 
and  yet  —  is  soul-sick ;  then,  Hector,  he  is  ready 
for  what  St.  Michael's  has  to  give." 

A  minute  later  he  drew  rein  in  the  shadow  of 
St.  Michael's  archway,  dismounted  and  fastened  the 
bridle  securely  at  Nanette's  head  and  turned  her 
loose  to  graze. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  at  once  an 
entreaty  and  a  command.  "  Cecile  is  asleep  just 
now.  She  will  not  need  you  until  later.  The  music 
will  give  you  strength  for  your  mission.  Come 
with  me." 

From  an  inner  pocket  he  drew  forth  a  key  slowly, 
and  without  turning  to  look  at  the  view  of  earth 
and  sky  and  sea  spread  out  before  them,  unlocked 
the  door  for  Hector  Stone  to  enter. 

Through  the  falling  dusk  of  the  short  day  they 
later  turned  Nanette's  head  homeward.  Only  the 
contented  whinny  of  the  horse,  the  low  chirping  of 
birds  going  to  their  nests,  the  soft  sounds  of  wood- 
land life,  broke  the  silence  of  the  hour.  The  short 
road  cutting  through  the  woods  at  the  base  of  the 
chateau  garden  was  soon  traveled.  There  Pierre 
Lamore  stopped  the  chaise  and  Stone  descended. 
At  the  carriage  step  he  paused.  His  face  was  col- 
orless —  an  odd  fire  burned  in  the  eyes  he  turned 
on  the  elder  man. 

445 


"  Good  night,"  he  said. 

Then  he  turned  and  lifted  the  latch  of  the  little 
wicket  gate,  and  unheeding  the  glory  of  the  cha- 
teau garden  that  he  crossed,  passed  on  to  meet 
Cecile  —  alone. 


446 


XVIII. 

IN  the  days  that  followed  Lamore  visited  but 
little  at  the  chateau.  If  now  and  then  the 
Comtesse  spoke  of  it  in  the  course  of  one  of 
his  infrequent  visits  there,  he  would  throw  the  sug- 
gestion to  one  side,  half  laughingly,  as  a  matter 
of  little  worth.  Indeed  it  seemed  to  him,  whose 
perceptions  had  been  sharpened  on  the  wheel  of 
world  experience,  that  for  the  first  time  the  Com- 
tesse really  cared  very  little  if  he  came  or  not. 
Sometimes,  as  he  watched  her,  the  thought  came 
to  him  that  there  had  come  to  her  a  brief  period 
of  matured  perfection  such  as  he  had  sometimes 
sensed  when  walking  through  the  vineyards  just 
before  the  harvest ;  that  the  essence  of  her  was 
held  in  some  abeyance  now  that  the  dark  period 
of  growth  had  passed  and  before  this  life's  experi- 
ence was  gathered  in.  There  rested  on  her  nothing 
that  recalled  to  him  the  wonder  and  the  sweetness 
of  her  life  in  its  spring  hour,  nothing  to  show  even 
traces  of  the  storms  that  had  swept  her  life,  but 
there  was  now  a  calmness  and  a  completeness  of 
all  things  in  her  bearing  that  was  to  be  felt  rather 
than  perceived.  If  she  was  feigning  happiness  she 
feigned  it  well;  if  she  indeed  were  happy  it  was 
the  happiness  of  one  who  judged  all  things  from  the 

447 


THE   SANCTUARY 


wider  standard  of  eternity.  Stone  he  rarely  saw 
on  visiting  the  chateau,  although  the  former  made 
many  trips  down  the  chateau  heights  to  the  Rectory 
in  the  vineyards.  Like  Lamore,  he  rarely  joined 
Cecile  those  afternoons  that  she  and  the  child  An- 
thony basked  together  in  the  sunshine  of  the  gar- 
den, taking  that  time  to  work  in  the  library  over 
his  American  mail. 

As  for  the  chateau  garden,  it  seemed  as  though 
it  were  reaching  the  zenith  of  a  glory  hitherto  un- 
attained,  and  in  the  hours  after  its  presiding  genius, 
old  Giovanni,  had  talked  to  the  chateau  lady,  he 
would  go  back  to  his  work  and  press  labor  on  his 
subordinates  with  an  almost  despotic  hand.  The 
flowers  had  been  the  deepest  worship  Giovanni 
knew,  and  it  was  not  strange  that  through  them 
the  old  man  offered  to  his  lady  joy  and  solace  by 
his  life's  devotion. 

The  perfection  of  the  place  struck  on  Lamore 
one  cool  morning  as  he  came  through  the  wicket 
gate  and  found  Cecile  very  slowly,  very  idly,  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  paths.  Her  face  was  as  quiet 
as  the  hands  that  held  some  lilies,  and  as  he  watched 
her  he  saw  her  lift  them  to  her  face.  Above  their 
perfect  whiteness  her  eyes  shone  forth  large,  dark 
and  luminous,  and  for  the  moment  seemed  neither 
aware  of  time  or  place.  So,  touched  with  the  divin- 
ity of  maternity,  might  she  once  have  held  the  cheek 
of  the  little  Count  to  her  own.  Then  with  a  start 
she  aroused  herself,  as  though  conscious  of  La- 
more's  gaze.  On  an  instant  a  smile  that  veiled 

448 


THE   SANCTUARY 


her  eyes  swept  across  her  face,  and  she  came  toward 
him,  both  hands  outstretched. 

"  Good  morning,  and  it  is  a  good  morning  —  is 
it  not  ?  "  she  called. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  a  wonderful  day  and  a 
wonderful  place." 

She  had  reached  him  now  and  stood  before  him, 
a  pretty  picture  in  her  pale  blue  dress,  a  soft  shawl 
around  her  shoulders  and  the  lilies  in  her  hands. 
It  reminded  him  how  often  as  a  child  and  as  a  girl 
she  had  stood  before  him  thus. 

"  A  wonderful  place,  Father  —  too  wonderful  to 
leave." 

She  did  not  cease  to  smile  but  she  spoke  yearn- 
ingly. He  listened  in  vain  for  the  note  of  resent- 
ment or  defiance. 

"  I  know,  Cecile.  Hector  stopped  at  the  Rectory 
last  night  on  his  return  from  Marseilles.  I  suppose 
Duport's  decision  is  not  to  be  questioned." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  made  a  little 
moue  that  was  far  more  fascinating  than  she  knew. 

"Voila!     Such  is  fame!" 

"  You  are  going  then?  " 

"  Assuredly  ;  but  not  because  Duport  recom- 
mends it  —  no  —  no!  I  shall  tell  him  so  when  I 
see  him  in  his  great  offices  in  Marseilles!  I  shall 
tell  him  so  when  later  we  dine  with  Madame  and 
himself,  and  I  will  snap  my  fingers  —  so!  " 

"  Cecile,  you  will  never  grow  up  !  You  will  never 
respect  either  eminence  or  authority,"  said  Lamore 
with  a  laugh.  "  Hector  had  best  hasten  through 

449 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Marseilles  with  you  and  get  you  to  Mentone  at 
once." 

"  Ah  —  Mentone !  "  with  supreme  contempt. 
"  What  a  place  to  choose !  What  can  Mentone 
offer  that  can  compare  to  this?  We  will  dine  at 
the  Winter  Palace  perhaps,  and  perhaps  spend  some 
weary  hours  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville  —  in  the  little 
museum  with  its  prehistoric  antiquities!  Hector 
will  like  that:  therefore  we  shall  go.  But  I  warn 
you,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  walk  through  the  tor- 
tuous and  steep  and  badly  paved  streets  of  the  Old 
Town,  in  spite  of  its  picturesqueness ;  and  you  need 
not  recommend  me  to  worship  at  St.  Michael's 
there  when  you  have  all  driven  me  from  my  St. 
Michael's  here.  You  can  think  of  me  —  poor  me 
—  driving  to  Cap  Martin  and  doing  the  usual 
things  one  must  do  at  Mentone.  The  thought  of 
it  wearies  me,  mon  pere.  Ah !  but  if  I  am  there 
long  enough  —  if  I  am  strong  enough  by  then  — 
Hector  shall  take  me  to  Sir  Thomas  Hanbury's 
garden,  and  I  shall  see  the  anemones  again.  Yes, 
yes,  I  had  almost  forgotten  the  anemones.  I  have 
not  looked  on  them  in  years.  One  can  be  patient 
and  wait  even  at  Mentone  —  for  the  anemones!  " 

A  wistful  look  replaced  the  bantering  brightness 
of  the  delicate  face.  He  watched  its  swift  changes 
in  silence. 

"  Perhaps  they  will  not  leave  me  at  Mentone  — 
Hector  and  that  great  inexorable  Duport  —  for  the 
anemones.  If  it  grows  too  cold  or  perhaps  too  hot, 
we  will  go  on  to  Nice  and  take  the  warm  baths 

450 


*»  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

there,  and  try  not  to  heed  the  hurrying  crowds  that 
tire  one  so!  Or  Cannes,  perhaps,  with  its  self- 
satisfied  prosperity.  Perhaps  if  I  am  good  —  that 
is,  as  good  as  /  can  be  —  they  will  let  me  visit 
Naples  and  watch  the  sun  set  over  Sorrento  before 
I  come  back  home." 

Lamore  turned  away  that  she  might  not  see  his 
face.  As  though  divining  his  need,  she  went  to  him 
and  took  his  hand  —  half  timidly,  as  she  might  have 
done  at  times  years  ago  as  a  very  little  child.  He 
did  not  trust  himself  to  turn  or  look  at  her,  but 
he  knew  that  she  was  gazing  intently  on  the  signet 
ring  he  wore,  a  lapis  lazuli  carved  with  the  arms 
of  the  Grandcoeurs.  It  had  once  been  the  property 
of  their  kinsman,  the  Cardinal  Venusti  in  Rome. 
It  had  been  given  to  the  first  cardinal  of  the  house 
of  Rene  by  the  great  Louis. 

"  I  shall  see  his  Eminence  perhaps?  "  The  voice 
was  low  and  clear. 

"  Undoubtedly,  my  child." 

"  It  has  been  the  custom  of  the  house  that,  if 
possible,  the  heir  receives  the  Last  Great  Blessing 
from  its  Cardinal  —  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Cecile." 

He  forced  himself  to  turn  and  look  down  at  her. 
If  she  had  thought  to  look  into  his  face  she  would 
have  seen  for  the  first  time  in  years  its  control 
broken  by  emotion.  But  she  kept  on  looking  at  the 
signet  ring,  and  once  she  patted  his  hand  softly. 

"  I  should  rather  that  it  were  you,"  she  said  with 
a  smile. 

451 


*fc  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

"If  you  outlive  his  Eminence,  it  will  undoubtedly 
be  I  that  shall  have  that  privilege  as  your  mother's 
kinsman  and  your  priest,  but,  Cecile,  Venusti  is 
greater  as  a  man  than  as  a  cardinal.  He  has  taught 
me  almost  all  of  worth  I  know.  For  years  I  have 
drawn  on  him  as  from  an  inexhaustible  well.  If 
he  lives  —  the  Last  Blessing  is  his  right." 

She  dropped  his  hand  and  turned  away  with  a 
sigh. 

"  There  are  rights  and  obligations  that  come 
with  rank  even  if  one  should  be  dying  —  are  there 
not?  "  she  said. 

"  Perhaps.  Yet  why  talk  so,  my  child  ?  It  is 
the  thought  of  going  that  has  made  you  sad.  Du- 
port  is  more  than  skilful  —  he  is  a  wizard  at  his 
art  —  it  may  be  that  you  will  look  on  the  anemones 
at  Mentone  and  —  come  home  cured." 

She  smiled.  Across  the  waters  she  looked  an 
instant  at  Grenette  lying  warm  and  peaceful  on  the 
far  off  point;  at  the  cloud  flecks  on  the  sky  of 
deepest  blue  —  back  to  the  cliffs  where  the  little 
Count  had  died ;  then  to  Lamore. 

"  I  shall  come  home  —  cured,  mon  pere,"  she  said 
slowly.  Then  a  faint  color  mounted  to  her  face. 
"  Voila !  there  is  Hector  coming  —  let  us  smile. 
Long  ago  I  left  the  Island  for  him  —  once  more  I 
go  because  he  asks  it.  Come." 

The  boy  Anthony  stood  at  sunset  at  the  window 
of  his  little  room  and  looked  toward  the  heights. 
In  one  hand  was  clasped  tightly  the  last  gift  the 

452 


THE   SANCTUARY 


great  lady  of  his  dreams  had  given  him  —  a  gilded 
key  for  St.  Michael's  door.  His  great  lady  —  his 
sweet  lady  —  had  come  and  gone.  There  would  be 
no  more  black  loaves  to  carry  to  the  chateau,  no 
more  walks  in  the  wonderful  garden  with  her  — 
at  least  until  she  should  come  home  to  them  quite 
well.  He  turned  away  abruptly  from  the  window 
from  where  he  could  see  standing  forth  against  the 
sunset  sky  the  chateau,  dark,  in  all  its  lonely  splen- 
dor, and  the  bare  flagstaff  waiting,  stripped  and  des- 
olate, for  the  Grandcceur  flag  —  the  gold  cross  upon 
an  azure  field. 

With  a  cry  he  flung  himself  on  the  floor  before 
an  image  of  the  Sacre  Cceur  and  pressed  St. 
Michael's  key  passionately  to  his  mouth. 


453 


XIX. 

IT  was  Hector  Stone  that  bore  the  light  burden 
of  Cecile  from  Fauchet's  boat  to  the  cottage  of 
Fauchet's  cousin  near  the  wharf,  and  laid  her 
on  the  bed  to  rest  and  wait  for  the  coming  of  the 
Marseilles  boat.  By  and  by  Cecile  dropped  off  to 
sleep,  and  leaving  Sister  Marie  Sebastian  to  watch 
by  her,  he  crept  out  for  a  walk  along  the  beach.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  Stone  was  feeling  the  ex- 
haustion that  comes  to  overstimulated  mind  and 
nerves.  All  his  life-work  seemed  calling  to  him 
from  his  own  country  —  all  his  constituents  were 
clamoring  for  him,  and  at  times  it  seemed  as  though 
all  the  influences  for  good  so  laboriously  gained 
were  slowly  falling  from  his  hands.  He  spent 
hours  —  they  were  always  hours  when  there  was 
no  probability  of  Cecile  needing  him,  mostly  after 
midnight  —  in  struggling  with  his  huge  correspond- 
ence. He  remembered  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  as  he 
took  off  his  hat  and  let  the  cool  sea  breezes  sweep 
his  face,  that  he  had  cabled  Farnum  to  send  young 
Turner  to  him.  Turner  was  to  meet  them  in  Mar- 
seilles and  would  relieve  him  of  much  of  the  me- 
chanical strain.  Farnum  could  not  be  spared  from 
the  American  end.  For  a  brief  instant  he  won- 
dered just  how  long  things  would  last  —  how  long 

454 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Farnum  would  have  to  struggle  with  the  American 
end  alone.  Then  he  remembered  Cecile  —  frail  as 
one  of  the  chateau  lilies  she  had  left.  She  had  left 
the  chateau  lilies  only  because  of  his  request.  He 
never  doubted  that,  although  she  never  told  him 
so ;  and  the  greatness  of  his  own  nature  rose  up, 
at  the  remembrance,  to  meet  her  own.  After  all, 
what  matter  it  if  one's  life-work  failed?  Some 
one  else  would  pick  it  up  where  it  had  been  dropped. 
There  had  come  the  conviction  to  him  that  this  one 
frail,  rich  woman,  with  her  titled  name  and  lands, 
needed  him  just  now  quite  as  much  as  the  striving, 
sweating,  toil-  and  sin-marked  ones,  across  the 
waters.  He  sat  down  on  a  point  of  land  where 
tall  pines  grew,  and  watched  the  sea  creep  in  with 
gentle  persistency  and  break  lightly  on  the  sands. 

He  was  aroused  from  his  revery  by  a  step  on  the 
pine  needles  near,  and  he  looked  up  suddenly  to  see 
Blair  Martin  smiling  at  him. 

"  Did  I  startle  you  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  did  not  mean 
to.  I  watched  you  coming  here  and  I  followed  you 
to  ask  about  Cecile." 

"  How  did  you  come  to  Grenette  ?  I  thought  you 
far  away." 

"  I  have  never  left  Grenette.  Father  Lamore 
and  Fauchet  kept  my  secret  well.  Did  you  fancy 
I  could  go  far  from  her  until  I  was  assured  that 
all  was  well  between  you  ?  " 

"  It  was  like  you,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  So 
like  you  that  I  might  have  known." 

"  Each  night,"   she  said,   "  I  have  watched   St. 

455 


3%  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Michael's  light.  Each  morning  I  have  watched  to 
see  if  the  flag  on  the  chateau  was  still  there.  Each 
day  —  I  have  prayed  for  her  —  and  you." 

He  stood  near  her,  but  he  could  not  trust  himself 
to  look  into  her  face;  instead  he  looked  steadily 
at  the  slow  creeping  in  of  the  sea. 

"  Her  life  is  like  that,"  he  said  at  last,  "  it  is 
creeping  surely,  persistently,  to  eternity,  but  no  man 
can  tell  how  long." 

Blair  Martin  drew  a  long  breath  that  was  like  a 
sigh. 

"Does  she  know?" 

"  She  must  know,  but  she  has  never  spoken  of 
it  to  me." 

"  What  does  Duport  say?  " 

"  That  it  is  like  the  tide  —  very  slow  but  very 
certain.  We  are  taking  her  to  Mentone  on  a  chance. 
She  talks  of  the  anemones.  She  may  see  them  this 
season  —  perhaps  other  seasons.  She  may  slip  out 
in  a  night.  Duport  says  there  have  been  heart  com- 
plications developing." 

"  Father  Lamore  told  me  something  of  it.  He 
comes  over  once  a  week.  He  has  kept  me  posted." 

"  So ! "  Stone  began  to  pace  the  sands  a  little. 
He  was  conscious  that  Blair  Martin  had  seated  her- 
self on  a  pine  knoll,  and  that  the  soft  breezes  were 
playing  with  her  hair. 

"  I  have  only  waited,"  she  was  saying,  "  to  be 
quite  sure  Cecile  would  never  need  me  again  before 
I  returned  to  America.  Now  I  know  she  does  not, 
and  it  is  as  I  wish.  I  think  I  am  nearer  content- 

456 


THE   SANCTUARY 


ment  to-night  —  true  contentment  —  than  I  have 
been  since  that  hour  under  the  mimosa  tree."  She 
spoke  so  quietly  that  Stone,  arrested,  turned  and 
looked  at  her.  She  seemed  to  be  speaking  to  the 
sands  and  sea  rather  than  to  him.  "  I  do  not  under- 
stand it.  I  do  not  question  it.  I  only  know  that 
after  the  dream  of  the  mimosa  tree  that  never  was 
fulfilled,  this  —  her  going  back  to  you  —  seems  to 
me  to  be  the  thing  most  desired  in  my  life.  It  has 
somehow  ceased  to  be  a  question  of  personal  hap- 
piness." 

He  sat  down  near  her,  a  strange  awe  for  her  on 
him. 

"  Where,  Blair,  do  I  come  in  ?  " 

She  turned  to  him  a  face  strangely  illuminated. 

"  Can  you  doubt  ?  "  she  asked,  an  exquisite  ca- 
dence in  her  voice.  "  You  come  in  —  in  all  things; 
in  all  my  thoughts;  in  all  my  aspirations;  in  all 
my  faith  for  mankind;  in  all  my  hopes  and  plans 
of  what  I  am  to  do  when  I  return.  As  the  shadow 
follows  the  sun,  so  my  soul  follows  you  sleeping 
and  awake,  and  as  the  sands  here  have  through 
the  centuries  waited  for  the  coming  of  the  sea,  so 
through  lives  behind  have  I  waited  —  so  through 
lives  to  come,  will  I  wait  —  for  you." 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  for  an  instant  it  touched 
the  edge  of  her  dress. 

Still  she  looked  at  him  with  those  strange  grave 
eyes.  They  rested  on  the  long  scar  on  his  face. 

"  I  want  her  to  have  all  she  can  of  you  —  I  want 
you  to  give  her  all  you  can.  You  —  even  you  — 

457 


THE   SANCTUARY 


can  only  half  divine  a  woman's  heart  and  need.  .  .  . 
As  compared  to  her,  how  short  is  the  time  I  have 
known  you  here,  but  at  least  the  scar  —  is  mine." 

"  I  have  known  you  always,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "  since  the  Primal  Cause  called  the  atoms 
into  being.  I  do  not  reason  about  it.  It  is  simply 
one  of  the  things  one  accepts  without  need  of 
proof.  And  of  late  I  have  fancied  the  remem- 
brance of  you  has  been  the  rock  on  which  I  have 
in  reality  built  my  life.  If  I  have  learned  to  be 
more  tolerant;  if  I  have  learned  more  of  pity  or 
forgiveness  or  breadth  of  understanding,  it  is  be- 
cause of  you." 

She  rose  from  her  seat  on  the  pine  knoll  and  laid 
her  hands  in  his.  For  an  instant  he  held  them  close, 
then  let  them  drop. 

"  It  is  because  of  each  other  that  we  live,"  she 
said.  "  Good-bye  —  good-bye  —  Joe  Blackie." 

He  watched  her  make  her  slow  way  across  the 
sands,  and  it  seemed  to  him  there  was  a  new  dig- 
nity in  her  bearing;  a  new  beauty  in  her  face. 
Where  the  beach  rounded  the  coast  in  a  sharp  curve 
to  the  village  of  Grenette,  she  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment. She  made  no  motion  of  farewell,  but  she 
turned  and  across  the  quiet  sands  she  looked  at 
him,  before  she  went  on  her  way. 


458 


XX. 

BACK  at  Toinette's  cottage  Blair  Martin  lin- 
gered a  month  waiting  for  the  sailing  of  the 
ship  from  .Havre  that  was  to  take  her  to 
America.  It  was  a  strange  month  of  poise  and  rest, 
in  which  for  the  time  growth  and  life  itself  seemed 
almost  suspended  —  a  period  of  expectancy  and  of 
waiting,  as  the  gray  quiet  hour  before  dawn  lies 
suspended  between  the  wonder  of  the  night  and 
the  glory  of  the  coming  day.  Like  that  hour  which 
broods  over  the  other  twenty-three,  and  that  con- 
tains at  once  the  culmination  of  the  darkness  and 
the  promise  of  the  light,  without  being  itself  a  thing 
of  beauty,  so  was  the  month  of  waiting  to  Blair 
Martin. 

She  was  unconscious  of  planning  plans  or  dream- 
ing dreams.  She  simply  drifted  in  a  mental  sea  of 
gray  calm  waters  that  soothed  the  child  heart  of 
her  as  tenderly  as  a  mother  could  have  done. 

Lamore  she  saw  almost  daily,  and  at  first  he  was 
full  of  news  of  the  travelers.  They  had  reached 
Mentone  safely,  and  Cecile  had  stood  the  trip  far 
better  than  either  Stone  or  Duport  had  hoped.  Then 
the  letters  were  less  frequent  —  less  hopeful  —  and 
the  brief  postscripts  added  by  Cecile  were  missing. 
These  last  reports  Lamore  did  not  show  to  the 

459 


THE    SANCTUARY 


American,  partly  because  he  was  loath  to  break  in 
upon  her  calm,  partly  because  the  chatelaine  had 
forbidden  it. 

"  Duport  joined  us  here  yesterday,"  had  run  the 
last  letter  from  Stone.  "  He  says  little,  and  Cecile 
makes  no  comment  on  her  condition  except  that  it 
is  to  be  kept  from  Blair  Martin,  that  her  leave- 
taking  of  the  Island  may  not  be  shadowed  nor  her 
return  home  saddened.  She  still  talks  of  Anthony 
and  —  the  anemones." 

The  letter  was  in  Lamore's  pocket  when  he  called 
at  Toinette's  cottage  that  day.  It  was  the  after- 
noon before  Blair  Martin  left  for  Havre.  Already 
were  the  trunks  packed  and  strapped;  already  had 
Fauchet  been  engaged  to  take  her  to  Grenette; 
already  had  the  rocks  and  woods  and  slopes  been 
visited  for  the  last  time  with  Anthony,  where  he 
had  sung  for  her  a  Canticle  and  the  song  of  the 
Swiss  children.  The  chateau  and  the  garden  and 
the  path  to  the  wicket  gate  lay  untrodden  and  un- 
visited. 

She  found  Lamore  on  the  rustic  bench  before  the 
cottage  door,  and  it  recalled  to  both  of  them  their 
first  meeting  there  months  ago.  She  was  thinking 
of  it  when  she  touched  the  soft  gray  gown  she  wore. 

"  Not  the  old  dress  and  Toinette's  gingham 
apron  to-day,  Father." 

"  I  find  Mademoiselle  the  peasant-worker.  I  take 
leave  of  her  as  the  great  lady." 

She  smiled  and  smoothed  the  soft  gray  dress 
caressingly.  It  was  the  one  that  she  had  worn  that 

460 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

Sunday  afternoon  so  long  ago  as  she  sat  before  the 
open  fire  in  her  little  study  at  the  Anchorage  —  the 
afternoon  Stone  had  first  told  her  of  Lamore  and 
the  Island  of  the  Angels.  She  always  wore  the 
pearls  with  it,  and  she  treasured  it  with  a  sentiment 
that  recognizes  no  dictates  of  passing  fashion,  leav- 
ing it  unchanged. 

"  Perhaps,  Father.  As  one  grows  from  the 
stature  of  the  child  to  that  of  the  woman,  so  I  have 
sometimes  fancied  our  inner  self  might  grow  from 
the  humble  to  something  perhaps  a  little  nearer 
the  divinity  within." 

She  spoke  slowly  and  simply. 

He  bowed  again. 

"  Mademoiselle,  it  is  because  of  that  that  I  have 
come  this  evening  to  make  a  request." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  wistful  wonder  in  her 
eyes. 

"A  request  —  of  me?"  she  repeated. 

He  sat  down  on  the  bench  by  her  and  looked  at 
her  intently. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  before  Fauchet  takes 
you  from  us  to-morrow,  will  you  hear  Mass  at  St. 
Michael's?" 


461 


XXI. 

IT  was  early  morning  when  Blair  Martin  slowly 
climbed  the  heights.  The  sun  as  with  the  ten- 
der warmth  of  youth  sifted  through  the  pine 
woods  and  with  the  shadows  made  a  checkered  car- 
pet over  which  she  walked.  Here  and  there  a  bird 
flew  in  front  of  her,  as  though  to  guide  her,  or  lin- 
gered unafraid  near  by,  searching  for  its  morning 
meal.  For  years  the  birds  of  the  chateau  estate  had 
never  heard  the  report  of  a  gun  or  known  its  cru- 
elty, and  to  all  who  walked  their  haunts  they  were 
friendly  guides.  One  of  them  now  —  of  splendid 
plumage  —  soared  over  her  as  she  neared  the  clear- 
ing beyond  which  stood  St.  Michael's.  She  could 
see  even  from  that  distance  that  the  great  main 
portal  was  thrown  wide,  as  though  in  invitation. 
She  approached  it  without  haste  but  without  hesi- 
tation, and  mounting  the  broad  steps  passed  through 
the  vestibule  into  the  memorial  chapel. 

Her  first  impression  was  of  grateful  shade  and 
coolness  from  the  warmth  and  glare  of  the  world 
outside,  and  she  stood  quietly  at  the  foot  of  the 
main  aisle.  Near  by  her  stood  a  basin  of  holy 
water.  She  noticed  how  clear  and  cool  it  looked 
in  its  marble  receptacle  supported  by  a  beautifully 
carved  column. 

She  slipped  into  the  last  pew  and,  without  know- 

462 


THE   SANCTUARY 


ing  that  she  did  so,  knelt,  her  elbow  resting  on  the 
back  of  the  pew  in  front,  her  chin  in  her  hand. 

There  was  no  one  to  be  seen,  no  sign  of  coming 
solemnities  to  distract  her  or  break  upon  her  calm, 
nothing  to  divert  her  attention  from  the  beauty  that 
surrounded  her.  The  wonder  of  the  whole  came 
to  her  gradually  and  almost  in  detail.  She  could 
not  remember  —  even  at  Cologne  —  seeing  win- 
dows radiating  in  such  mystic  roses,  or  pointed 
arches  more  perfect  in  outline  and  proportion.  The 
marvel  of  those  pillared  arches  held  her  —  their 
grace,  the  impression  of  upholding  without  effort 
the  weight  of  the  vaulted  roof.  The  sense  of  color, 
perfectly,  exquisitely  distributed  through  the  tall 
windows,  the  wonder  of  the  one  behind  the  high 
altar,  commanded  at  once  the  respect  of  intellect, 
the  worship  of  the  heart.  The  impression  of  the 
whole  was  the  impression  of  perfection  imprisoned 
in  white  marble  —  the  marble  slabs  that  paved  the 
broad  central  aisle  that  led  up  to  the  white  steps 
of  the  Sanctuary  —  the  gleaming  splendor  of  that 
later  thing  of  stone.  Was  it  only  stone,  she  won- 
dered, quarried  by  the  effort  of  man's  hands  with 
infinite  patience  and  brought  here  at  great  labor 
and  great  price  to  immortalize  a  little  child?  Was 
the  cross  that  shone  transplendent  on  the  Sanctuary 
door,  nothing  but  metal  after  all  ?  The  great  win- 
dow and  the  Sanctuary  had  strangely  enough  at- 
tracted her  attention  last,  and  now  they  held  her 
to  the  exclusion  of  all  else.  Outside  the  light  grew 
more  intense  and  increased  in  brilliancy  the  hues 

463 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

of  the  great  window  through  which  it  shone.  The 
window  fascinated  her  —  the  heroic  figure  of  the 
Archangel  became  a  type  of  man  glorified  —  sym- 
bolic of  the  growth  he  might  attain.  The  child 
figure  in  front  —  was  it  the  boy  Anthony  im- 
prisoned in  deathless  glory  there,  or  the  little 
Count  himself  —  a  type  of  that  innocence  that  the 
soul  must  regain  and  know,  before  it  can  be  in 
truth  reborn.  Over  it  all  ran  the  inscription : 

"  To  the  glory  of  God  and  St.  Michael  His  Arch- 
angel and  in  memory  of  Hector  Rene  Louis  de 
Grandcceur,  last  Count  of  the  line." 

Some  knowledge  of  the  perfect  love,  the  depths 
of  the  perfect  sorrow,  that  the  coming  and  the 
going  of  that  short  life  must  have  meant  to  Cecile, 
came  to  her,  and  in  that  hour  was  born  in  her  from 
the  depths  of  her  own  unattained  maternity,  the 
understanding  of  a  grief  and  love  that  had  encased 
itself  in  glass  and  stone  for  centuries  to  come,  as 
a  flower,  petrified  but  unimpaired,  is  sometimes 
found  long  after  its  death-blow,  buried  in  the  wrecks 
of  time.  There  was  nowhere  any  sign  or  tablet, 
any  smallest  word  to  commemorate  the  stricken 
heart  that  had  thought  out  and  ordered  built  this 
splendor.  It  stood  the  great  memorial  for  a  little 
child,  but  Blair  Martin  read  in  every  curve  and  line, 
of  perfect  self-effacement,  the  undying  monument 
to  the  woman  whose  brain  had  conceived  the  glory 
and  whose  heart  lay  buried  here. 

464 


THE   SANCTUARY 


She  looked  upon  the  window  and  the  white  altar 
beneath  until  her  vision  became  blurred  and  until 
the  colors  of  the  window  mingled  with  the  radiance 
of  the  marble  altar  where  shone  the  cross  —  a  sign 
and  symbol  —  upon  the  Sanctuary  door. 

Then  some  one  began  to  play  the  organ;  the 
tones  of  it  swelled  out  and  came  beating  against 
her  senses  as  waves  beat  against  unresisting  drift- 
wood, carrying  it  whither  they  will. 

She  did  not  question  the  wonder  of  the  music, 
which  she  supposed  was  Lamore's,  any  more  than 
she  had  questioned  the  marvel  of  the  memorial 
chapel  itself.  She  did  not  even  sense  what  it  was 
that  Lamore  played.  She  only  knew  she  knelt  and 
listened,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  Sanctuary  door 
and  the  red  lamp  that  burned  near  by.  She  was 
conscious  of  a  perfect  peace.  So  rapt  was  her 
attention  that  at  first  she  was  not  aware  when  the 
music  ceased,  and  she  was  recalled  to  herself  by 
seeing  the  boy  Anthony,  followed  by  Lamore  in 
his  vestments,  enter  the  Sanctuary  by  the  side  door. 

The  opening  words  of  the  Mass  fell  upon  her 
ears,  low,  distinct,  sonorous.  They  reached  her  in 
the  perfect  clearness  of  utterance,  in  the  wonder  of 
their  simplicity,  even  where  she  knelt. 

She  made  no  effort  to  follow  a  service  with  which 
she  was  unfamiliar  in  spite  of  her  visits  to  the  vil- 
lage church.  She  only  wondered  vaguely  if  the 
service  was  the  same;  if  it  were  only  heightened 
imagination  that  it  seemed  to  her  the  very  vaulted 
roof,  the  very  pillared  arches,  the  very  stained  glass 

465 


*ft  THE   SANCTUARY  m 

windows  and  the  Sanctuary  itself,  reechoed  La- 
more's  utterances  and  the  clear  flute-like  responses 
of  the  child. 

Then  it  was,  unbidden  and  unthought  of,  there 
crept  a  mist  across  the  communion  rail,  hiding  La- 
more's  figure  and  Anthony's  as  well.  As  she  knelt 
and  watched  it,  it  formed  once  more  the  Bridge. 
With  a  quick  indrawing  of  the  breath  she  pressed 
closer  to  the  pew  in  front  and  clasped  her  hands 
tightly  together,  as  she  waited  for  the  familiar  fig- 
ure to  appear.  But  to-day  she  waited  in  vain  and 
with  a  strained  wonder,  for  from  the  Bridge  stretch- 
ing there  across  the  Sanctuary  appeared  no  sign  of 
Hector's  face.  Instead  the  mist  slowly  parted  and 
shifted  until  it  formed  —  and  she  looked  upon  —  a 
perfect  cross.  From  the  center  of  it  the  face  of 
the  child  Anthony  looked  at  her  —  a  thing  glori- 
fied —  before  the  cross  itself  assumed  the  heroic 
proportions  of  a  Man.  She  knew  not  if  she  saw 
aright;  she  knew  not  if  she  dreamed,  or  if  the  fig- 
ures in  the  great  window  in  some  strange  way  of 
reflected  light  had  become  confused  with  the  figures 
of  Lamore  and  the  child  ministering  within  the 
rails.  She  only  knew  that,  vision,  reality  or 
dream,  the  cross  of  mist  became  the  Man  with  the 
face,  the  bearing  of  the  St.  Michael  of  the  window, 
transfigured  with  a  glory  such  as  she  had  never 
seen.  The  face  of  the  Man  in  the  splendor  of 
his  full  stature,  faded,  as  the  face  of  the  child  had 
done,  and  from  the  cross  at  its  center  burned  a 
strange  white  light.  Creeping  from  head  and  foot- 

466 


m  THE   SANCTUARY  ^ 

piece  and  cross-bars  stole  strange  colors  to  illumi- 
nate the  Thing  of  fancy  or  reality.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  along  the  headpiece  in  a  strange  vividness 
of  gold  there  walked  the  great  intellects  of  the 
world;  that  they  passed  before  her  in  a  strange 
review  —  the  St.  Pauls,  the  Platos  and  the  Hugos 
and  the  Bacons;  the  Mozarts  and  the  Wagners; 
the  Angelos  and  the  Galileos  and  the  Brunos  and 
the  Pythagorases.  Somewhere  from  their  midst 
there  looked  out  at  her  Venusti,  the  Great  Cardinal, 
as  she  had  seen  him  one  spring  morning  at  the  altar 
rail,  his  hands  on  the  boy  Anthony's  hair.  From 
the  right  arm  there  came  to  meet  them  at  that  glow- 
ing Heart  the  Center,  in  a  stream  of  palest  green, 
the  souls  of  action  —  the  Elijahs,  the  Marthas,  the 
Booths  and  the  David  Livingstones;  and  some- 
where, almost  hidden  in  all  that  great  procession, 
but  still  there,  it  seemed  to  her  she  saw  the  faces 
of  Lamore  and  of  Stone.  Then  it  was  that  slowly 
from  the  cross's  left  arm,  wrapped  in  a  blue  softer, 
more  intense  than  even  the  southern  sky  without, 
there  came  to  mingle  in  that  Central  Light,  the 
high  types  of  the  world's  servants  of  devotion :  the 
St.  Johns,  the  Marys  of  Bethany,  the  St.  Francises 
and  the  Teresas  and  the  a  Kempises  —  all  those  on 
whom  the  seal  of  mystic  longing  had  been  set,  and 
among  them  for  a  moment  there  came  to  her,  as 
they  passed,  the  impression  of  Cecile.  Again  she 
watched  them  mingle,  melt  into  that  One  Center, 
and  a  light  such  as  one  sees  at  sunset  sometimes 
behind  the  Matterhorn  —  a  pale  crimson  toning 

467 


THE   SANCTUARY 


into  softest  pink  —  enveloped  the  base  of  the  cross, 
and  climbing  up  the  path  thus  made  she  watched  the 
Peters,  the  Magdalens,  the  Damiens,  the  Coolidge 
Pattersons  wind  their  way,  and  she  felt  herself 
among  them  —  those  who  loved  ;  but  always  — 
always  —  as  a  flame  that  soars  toward  heaven  to 
be  absorbed  and  lost  yet  is  still  a  flame  —  the  great 
procession  moved  toward  One  Goal,  as  though  from 
out  of  that  One  Heart  of  Power,  all  intellect,  all 
action,  all  devotion  and  all  love  had  once  gone  forth 
in  equal  parts  and  were  by  their  own  individualized 
efforts  bringing  back,  vitalized  and  perfected,  the 
sum  of  all  experience  to  Their  Own. 

The  strange  cross  faded  into  one  glowing  Heart 
of  Light  before  It  in  Its  turn  dissolved,  and  there 
came  to  her  sight  distinct  again  St.  Michael's  win- 
dow, the  white  marble  of  the  Sanctuary  and  the 
figures  of  Lamore  and  the  child.  The  Wafer  had 
been  blessed  and  Lamore  was  giving  the  benedic- 
tion. 

An  hour  later  at  the  little  wharf  where  Fauchet's 
boat  waited  at  its  moorings,  she  laid  her  hand  in 
that  of  Lamore. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said.  "  When  I  am  living  in  the 
valley  again  —  when  the  heights  seem  strange,  re- 
mote and  cold,  I  will  recall  to-day.  I  will  remem- 
ber that,  however  feebly  I  have  interpreted  it,  how- 
ever distorted  and  blinded  was  my  vision,  I  have 
no  cause  to  ever  doubt  or  fear,  since  once,  for  a 
brief  time,  I  sensed  the  One  Reality  of  Things." 

468 


THE   SANCTUARY 


They  watched  her,  Lamore  and  the  child  An- 
thony, until  Fauchet's  boat  was  a  speck  upon  the 
waters.  Lamore's  face  was  grave.  He  seemed  to 
have  grown  old.  There  was  a  strange  sadness  in 
his  eyes. 

"  She  —  the  good  American  —  she  will  come  to 
us  again  ?  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  boy  Anthony. 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  child.  We  can  only  wait 
—  Anthony  —  only  wait." 

The  boy  slipped  his  hand  in  that  of  Lamore,  that 
closed  over  it  quickly. 

"  And  hope,"  said  the  child.  "  Nay,  do  not  be 
so  sad.  Always  will  7  love  you,  mon  p£re" 

It  was  the  boy  Anthony  who,  three  days  later, 
by  order  of  the  Great  Cardinal,  climbed  the  turret 
stairs  of  the  chateau  and  flung  the  Great  Banner 
with  its  gold  fringe  to  the  breeze. 


THE   END. 


469 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000127608     8 


